Fifty Shades of Parody
by American Chimpanzee
Summary: "Will you stay in our lovers' story? / If you stay, you won't be sorry / 'Cause we believe in you / Soon you'll grow, so take a chance / With a couple of Kooks / Hung up on romancing" David Bowie January 8, 1947-January 10, 2016
1. Chapter 1

I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror. Damn my hair-it looks like a tumbleweed on steroids, only not as well-moisturized. I look at my roommate, the beautiful Katherine Kavanagh. Only she's not so beautiful now. Now, she's in bed, sick as a pig.

Hidden under the blankets, there seems to be an abundance of her. She's sweating more than Rosie O'Donnell's upper lip, and moaning. How can I stay mad at her? Poor baby.

Somehow she talked me into interviewing some super-duper, wowie-zowie, mega-industrialist for the student newspaper, _Mein Kampf. _It's an interview _she _should be doing, but, like I said, she's sickiepoo. I know, because I can see her writhing under the blankets. Her eyes are rolling back in their socket like that little girl in _The Exorcist_, just not as attractive looking. She's my bestest, dearest friend.

God, I hate her.

"Goodbye," I tell her.

"Goodbye," she tells me.

"Goodbye," says a voice from under her blanket.

"Holy fudge," I say, only I don't say fudge.

Christian Grey is the Head Hookah of Grey Enterprises Holdings & Fish Market, Inc. I make it to his headquarters with enough time for a quick stop at Taco Bell. I'm still wiping off the special taco sauce when I walk into the lobby of GREY HOUSE, his 69 story office building.

I'm greeted by Olivia, a young blonde intern seated behind a solid sandstone desk. She's beautiful, in an ugly kind of way.

"And you are..." she asks me.

"Anastasia Steele," I tell her.

"And this concerns..."

"I'm here to see Mr. Grey."

"Can I ask you a personal question, Ms. Steele?" she says, leaning forward confidentially.

"Of course," I tell her.

"Where did you buy your little ensemble?"

"Oh, K-Mart," I tell her. "Why? Do you like it?"

"No, I just want to make sure I don't shop there by mistake."

My confidence immediately deflates, although, to tell the truth, I don't know what it would be like flated.

"Can I get you something?"

"Do you have any Taco Bell?"

"Mr. Grey will see you now," Olivia tells me, and holds the door to Mr. Grey's office open for me. "Do go through."

I get up, and smooth the wrinkles from my skirt, just as a tall, elegantly dressed, attractive African American man exits.

OMG! It's _THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA!_ He's holding a shiny new penny in one hand and wiping away tears with the other. He's _crying?_ Once he took money out of my wallet and gave it to Olivia, he felt much better, even giving me a smile, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners.

I look. He barely left me enough for an Enchirito.

"You don't need to knock," Olivia tells me, counting her cash. "Just go in."

As I walk past, the door closes behind me, catching the heel of my left foot. I stumble forward, hitting my head on a low beam. _Ow! _I put one hand behind my head, rubbing it gingerly, and the other forward to steady myself, accidentally placing it on a wood-burning iron stove. _Hot!_ I quickly lift my hand from the scalding metal, lift it to my mouth, and blow on it. I shuffle backward, and back into a door with a "Wet Paint" sign on it. _Aw, nuts, my navy-blue jacket is ruined!_ As I step forward, the door opens behind me, and an ironing board falls, hitting me on the top of my head. I stumble forward, needing air. I'm at an open window, still blowing on my burning hand, while my other hand rests on the window sill, keeping me balanced. The window closes hard on my one good hand-_Yikes!_-crushing it and trapping it at the same time. I have to use some force to pull it out, and the momentum spins me around making me fall face-first into a wedding cake. _Yum! _Unable to see, I stumble around and step right into a bear trap. _Ouch! _I'm such a nordberg.

I hope I didn't embarrass myself.

"Nonsense," Christian Grey comforts me. "I barely noticed."

When my eyes finally focus, I can see that the great Mr. Grey is pretty young for an old guy. And pretty good-looking to boot. He sees me seeing him.

"Miss Kavanagh is indisposed," I tell him, "so she sent me. I hope you don't mind."

"And you are..."

"Anastasia Steele."

"And this concerns..."

"I have some questions, Mr. Grey." I smooth a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

"I thought you might," he says, deadpan.

"You're very young to have amassed such an empire. To what do you owe your success?"

'Before every business deal," he confides in me, confidingly, "I stick a shiny new penny up my arse. And then, just before the meeting is to begin, I go to the bathroom and take it out. When I meet my opponent, I _give _him that penny, telling him it's lucky. That way, when we're negotiating, I can never take him seriously knowing that he's handled a penny that's been stuck up my bum."

I was amazed at his business acumen. I look at him. He holds my gaze steadily, impassive. My heartbeat quickens. My face flushes. My nose runs.

Why does he have such an unnerving effect on me? His overwhelming good looks? The way his eyes blaze at me? The size of his feet?

"And once you've beaten your opponent in a bitter beetle business battle, what do you do to, ah, chill out?"

"Chill out? Well, to 'chill out,' as you put it-I climb with the sherpas in Mount Everest. I run with the Tarahumara Indians in Mexico. I watch Oprah reruns. I'm a very wealthy man, Miss Steele, and money gives me class, a lot of class," he says, and blows his nose into the sleeve of my navy-blue jacket. "Ah, excuse me."

_Ew._

There's a knock on the door, and Olivia enters.

"Mr. Grey, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes."

"We're not finished here, Andrea..."

"Olivia."

"If I say it's Andrea, it's Andrea. Please cancel my next appointment."

"Very well, Mr. Grey," Andrea says, then exits, not letting the door hit her where the good Lord split her.

_Crap, crap, and double crap! Where's he going with all this?_

"I'd better leave," I tell him. "I don't want to keep you from anything."

He steeples his fingers in front of his mouth, and balances himself on one leg.

"Plus, I do have a long drive," I continue, continuing.

He walks me to the door, still on one leg.

"We have an excellent internship program here," he tells me. Why is he telling me this? Is he offering me a job? "We can always use a good woman who knows her way around a coffee machine."

"Oh, I'll bear that in mind," I murmur, bearing it in mind. "Do you know where the nearest Taco Bell is?"

"Out there," he says, and points out of his office and into the streets. I'm surprised when he follows me out and walks me to the elevator.

"Anastasia," he says as a farewell.

"Christian," I reply.

"Please," he tells me, "call me Mr. Grey."

And mercifully the elevator door closes.

On my nose.


	2. Chapter 2

My heart is pounding.

I never should have had the Heart Attack Grill's two-for-one Lard Special with the free Diet Coke. I don't care _what _the Coca-Cola Company says, I bet there's some empty calories in there somewhere. They don't all dissipate in an effervescent sparkle of fizz once you pop the top like my mother used to tell me.

When the elevator finally spits me out on the first floor with a grunt, I'm more confused than a Hollywood starlet sitting in front of a plate of food.

What the crap had just happened?

On my drive back home, I think about a lot of things. I think about whether there will ever be peace in the Middle East. I think about whether we will ever judge each other by the content of our character, and not the color of our highlights. I think about what I'm going to eat when I get home.

Speaking about getting home...

When I get home Katherine-_Kate_-must still be feeling sick, because she's sitting slumped at the kitchen table, hand to her forehead and moaning.

"I got the interview," I tell her, hoping it will lift her spirits. It does.

"You got the interview!" she says, immediately brightening. "Oh goodie, goodie, goodie! Gimmie, gimmie, gimmie! Right there, right there, right there!"

So I put the digital recorder down in front of her.

"A little bit more to the left," she instructs, and so I do.

She scoops it up in her hands, clutches it to her chest, shuddering. I've never seen her so happy. She's almost convulsing in excitement.

"Okay, well," I tell her, "I've got to go to work, even though I told them I wouldn't be going in."

She shudders a final time in acknowledgement, and grows quiet. She's sad to see me go, I guess.

"Well... goodbye," I tell her.

"Goodbye," she tells me.

A midget strolls cockily out from beneath the kitchen table, flossing his teeth.

"Goodbye," he says.

I make it to work. They're happy to see me.

"You told us you weren't coming in!" Mr. Clayton says. I've worked at Clayton's Hardware & Enema Supplies since I started at UTEP. They love me just like family. "Go back home!"

Oh, I've got so much studying to do for my finals, but first I write an essay for one of my classes. I call it _The Communist Manifesto and Other Decorating Tips_.

I'm back home. Kate's not there. I call my mom. She's not in. I call my dad, and only get his voice mailbox. I call a few more people I know, but they don't answer, either. I finally give 9-1-1 a try.

"Quit calling us!" the emergency-operator teases, playing hard-to-get.

The doorbell rings, and it's my bestest, most dearest gay hispanic friend, Jose, with a bottle of Three Fingers tequila.

"Don't you drink _Jose Cuervo_, my illegal alien friend?" I ask him.

"It's too creepy to put something in my mouth that has my name on it," he explains.

The doorbell rings again. This time it's Nosmo King, my bestest, most dearest gay African-American friend.

"'Nosmo'?" I once asked him. "That's an interesting name. How'd you get it?"

"My mother, when she was giving birth to me, said it was a sign from God. As she was being wheeled into the delivery room, she looked up, and there, just above the door, was the name 'Nosmo King.'"

I remember wiping away a tear from my eye. It was a very touching story, especially since his last name is Jones.

The doorbell rings yet again. When I open the door I see my gay Asian-American friend Kim Jong Eh? (no relation), and my gay Native American friend Dances With Gerbils. They're both my bestest, most dearest friends in all the world.

After a few shots of tequila, they begin to throw a party that I'm not invited to. Suddenly, I'm in the mood for a cucumber salad.

Saturday at the store is going to be a nightmare, especially since it's Tuesday.

"Hey! We told you to..."

"I'll work for free," I say. It seems to pacify them.

"Okay," Mr. Clayton says, happy to have me. "Just stay in the back where the customers can't see you."

I agree, and even promise to buy everyone a pizza later.

"Don't bother," he says. "We can see the results of eating too much pizza."

They're like my second family, always looking out for me.

I'm at the back counter, discreetly eating a _chimichanga_. I glance up and-_crap!_-I find myself trapped in the bold gaze of Christian Grey. I'm like a deer caught in the headlights of an 18-wheeler barreling down the road at it.

Not just crap, but _holy _crap. What the hell is _he _doing here?

"Hello, Mr. Grey," I tell him. "This is a pleasant surprise."

"Yes," he tells me. "For you."

"What can I help you with?"

"I was at a store. It was called Nothing But Lampshades. That was all they sold. Lampshades. But I, Miss Steele, am a man who needs more than lampshades."

"I understand completely," I tell him, not understanding at all.

"Actually, I don't need anything. I was just in the neighborhood, and I wanted to express how much I enjoyed our little interview the other day."

"So did I," I tell him. "I just wish I could have gotten some pictures of you to go with Kate's story."

"Pictures? I'll have my dear friend, Anthony Weiner, send her some. Just give me her cell phone number."

"Gee, thanks," I tell him, thinking how excited Kate is going to be when she gets them.

"_Ana!_"

It was Paul, Mr. Clayton's youngest brother. I've known him every since he was molested by his uncle. I had heard he was home from Princeton, where his family tells everybody he's going to college, but is really just a janitor there.

He puts a too-familiar arm around my shoulder, and pulls me close. I can see Mr. Grey's eyes narrow and his face harden from the corner of my eye.

"Er, Mr. Grey... this is Paul. His brother owns this store. Paul... this is Mr. Christian Grey. He owns everything else."

"_Christian_ Grey?" Paul asks.

"Yes," I tell him.

"_The_ Christian Grey?"

"Yes."

"Not Christian Gray, but Christian _Grey?_"

"Yes, yes. Christian Grey. Now get your hand off my ass and say hello."

"Wow," he tells the Master of the Universe. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes," Mr. Grey answers, his tone clipped and cool. "You can leave."

"Yeah, I can do that," Paul says and disentangles his arm from around me. As he leaves. Mr. Grey eyes him steely as he walks away. Like a predator predatoring his prey, he watches Paul but speaks to me.

"Hmm, I guess I will need some things after all," he says, casually, with an undercurrent of danger.

"Of course," I tell him, "..._Christian_."

"Please... call me Mr. Grey."

I step from around the counter, and bump into our bow rake display. They all come crashing to the concrete floor. I'm surrounded by a sea of rakes. Maybe more like a school of hungry sharks in a sea of concrete. Crap, I'm bad at metaphors.

I cautiously move one foot forward, stepping on the head of a rake. The wooden handle snaps upward fast-_Whack!_-and it hits me smack in the face-"_Ow!" _The force of the blow makes me step back-_Whack!_-and a rake hits me on the _back _of my head-_"Ow!"_ I step forward. _Whack! _I step back._"Ow!" _Forward. _Whack!_ Back. "_Ow!" _

_ Whack! Whack! Whack!_

_ "Ow!" "Ow!" "Ow!"_

"Do you need some assistance, Miss Steele?" Mr. Grey-my hero-asks me.

"No, no," I tell him. "This happens all the time."

In the Gay Mafia, do you think getting "whacked" is a good thing?

_Whack!_ "_Ow!" _

Neither do I.

He buys some rope, duct tape, and a gag.

"For the body in the trunk," he kids, kiddingly. "Do you have any blindfolds?"

"The bandana you bought as a gag can also be used as a blindfold," I say, saving him some money. He may be a billionaire, but I'm sure he didn't get there by being a spendthrift. "Anything else?"

"Yes," he says, looking around. "I will also need some hydrofluoric acid."

"Hydrofluoric acid?"

"Yes. Is that a problem?"

"No, no," I assure him.

"Along with a plastic container big enough to contain, oh, say, your friend Paul."

"Hmm, I don't know if we have one that big."

"If you don't, then two will do."

"What are you going to put inside them?"

"The acid."

"The _acid?_"

"Yes."

"Any decent acid is gonna eat right through plastic."

"Not hydrofluoric," he assures me. "Mr. White, an old chemistry teacher of mine, once taught me that."

"What kind of plastic, then?"

"Polyethylene. Just look at the bottom for a triangle stamped 'LDPE.'"

_Okay_, I admit to myself. _I like him._

I walk him to the front of the store. At the glass-sliding door, he turns around and faces me, saying nothing. He looks around my place of work a final time.

"This place looks so much different through binoculars," he tells me.

"What?"

"Just kidding," he says, "_Anastasia_."

His tongue caresses my name like it was the last donut at the Krispy Kreme. I don't know what's going to happen next. Is he going to take me in his arms? Kiss me?

He hands me a shiny new penny.

"For luck," he says


	3. Chapter 3

I can't wait. I _have_ to call Kate. She'll be ecstatic. And elated. And enraptured. And other words that begin with e and make me glad I own a Thesaurus.

"Who's this?" she demands when she answers the phone. To the point, as ever.

"Kate!" I squeal. "It's Ana!"

"Who?"

"Ana. Ana Steele."

"Doesn't ring a bell."

"Ana, your roommate."

"Ana?"

"Yes!" Finally.

"My roommate?"

"Yes!"

"Ana's not home," she cheeches to my chong.

As predicted, when I am finally able to prove my identity by answering a gauntlet of password questions, she is euphoric.

"Wait a minute," she says, cutting me off. "Anthony Wiener just texted me those photographs you were telling me about. I'm looking at them now... _ewww!_"

"What's wrong?"

"Let's just say we'll need some new pictures."

Now it was _my_ turn to be excited. This means I'll get to talk to Christian Grey _again_, and maybe even _see_ him again.

I immediately call Jose, who conveniently happens to be a professional photographer when he isn't busy rolling drunks outside of the Old Plantation, a local gay bar in Downtown El Paso.

"Who are they gonna call?" he once justified his actions to me. "The police? Don't make me laugh. Ah, ha, ha, ha, ha! I SAID DON'T MAKE ME LAUGH!"

So I call him.

"Ana who?" he says.

When we finally get everything straightened out, he's excited too.

"Have you _seen_ the pictures Kate just sent me? Boy, am I in the mood for a cucumber salad."

In the end, I have to talk him into taking the new photos of Mr. Grey for Kate and myself.

"Why would I want to do something that so obviously would be good for my career?" his enquiring mind wants to know.

"How about for a shiny new penny..."

"Don't make..."

"...that's been up Christian Grey's oompa-loompa?"

Jose squeals with delight, and then I hear a muffle sound. I guess Jose is playing hide-the-gerbil with his phone again.

I take that as a yes.

Now, all I have to do is call Mr. Grey. I dial 4-1-1.

"This is Information," the operator flirted.

"Yes," I tell him. "I'd like the personal number of Christian Grey the billionaire."

"Hold please." There's a brief pause. When he comes back, do I detect a hint of jealousy in his voice? "His number is..."

I've wasted so much time on the phone that my shift is over, and I go to clock out. I don't see Paul on my way out. In fact, I haven't seen him for a while. I wonder where he is?

Well, I can't worry about it now.

It's the next day, and we're at the Old Plantation waiting for the Man of the Hour to arrive.

Kate pulled some strings and other body parts, and we're using the special Smegma Room. It's a lot nicer than it sounds.

It's me, Kate, Jose, and Travis. Travis is a friend of Jose who I'm just now introducing for no apparent reason.

The time we spend waiting gives us an opportunity to get to know one another better.

"You know, Jose," I say, "in all the time I've known you, I _still_ don't know what your last name is?"

"It's Schwartz," he says, proudly.

"_Schwartz?_" Kate interjects. "What kind of a name is 'Schwartz' for an illegal aliean from Mexico?"

"It's my given name," he tells her.

"Give it back," she tells him, rudely.

As I'm removing Jose's hands from around Kate's neck, the fatally seductive Christian Grey makes his grand entrance, fashionably late, like Kate's period.

Kate immediately takes control of the whole affair.

"Here," she tells him, "put on this hat. And these shoes. And this red rubber ball. _On your nose!_ What do you think I'm talking about?"

When we're done, we're all more tired than Oprah Winfrey's excuses for not marrying Steadman.

Not Christian Grey, though. He looks as fresh and energetic and ready to conquer the world as if he just graduated from Clown College.

"Miss Steele," he says, looking not just into my eyes, but into my _soul_. My knees grow weak. "Would you care to join me for coffee?"

Care to? _Care_ to? I would _love _to! But...

"I'm afraid I can't," I offer, weakly. "I have to drive my three huge friends and all this photography equipment back in my tiny little Volkswagon Beetle."

I wave my hands toward them like a Sesame Street muppet.

"No problem," he tells me. "_Crockett!_"

From out of nowhere, his driver/slash/bodyguard/slash/optometrist is standing next to him.

"Yeah, pal?" he says. He's wearing an Armani sports jacket with a powder-blue t-shirt and white linen pants. Slip-on loafers, no socks. His hair is more suited to the beaches of Miami, not Downtown El Paso.

Mr. Grey waves a hand dismissively in the direction of my friends.

"Take care of these three, would you?"

"Whatever you say, pal," Crockett says, and pulls a gun out from beneath his jacket. I think it's a Bren Ten, a stainless-steel handgun manufactured by Dornaus & Dixon.

"No, no," Mr. Grey corrects him gently, stroking the barrel of the gun with the tips of his long fingers as if it was a... um... ah... well... something longer than it is wide, if you get my drift. "I mean, take them home."

Mr. Grey promises to take me to a world-famous restaurant. And he does. McDonald's.

"Would you like something to eat?" he asks, like the gentleman that he is.

I sit in the chair he offers, and avert my eyes, looking at the top of the table as he walks to the counter. I don't get it. Is this a _date_ or what? I eat it anyway. I don't know what it is, but it's definitely not a date. Maybe a fig.

He comes back carrying a McDonaldland tray. On it is coffee for him, and two Big Macs, a large order of fries, plus two-for-one-dollar apple pies, and a cup with hot water for me.

"I asked for hot tea," I tell him in my small voice. My subconscious rolls her eyes at my meekness. They roll under a refrigerator where she can't get them.

"And hot tea you shall have, my dear," he says as he reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a teabag of Earl Grey tea still in its packaging envelope. Say what you will about Christian Grey, the man has class.

I pick up the teabag, put it in my purse (for later), and take a sip of the hot liquid in front of me.

"I like my tea weak," I explain.

"I guess you do," he says, eyeing me appreciatively. "Tell me about yourself, Miss Steele. I want to know all about you."

When I wake him up twenty minutes later, I'm done with my appetizer and he's ready to leave.

We walk down the street, and stop at the corner of Norfolk and Way for a red light. We're waiting for the little green man to show up. _Little green man? _What the heck am I talking about? I have no idea.

Embarrassed with myself, I turn to run away, and smack headfirst into a lamppost. I bounce back into Christian's strong arms, thinking, "It's not the heat, it's the stupidity."

I look up into his eyes, and he looks down into mine. I hope there's nothing dangling from my nostrils.

His are immaculate.

_Holy crap!_ Is he gonna kiss me, or what?


	4. Chapter 4

"I never want to see you again in my life," he tells me, his eyes soft but hard, his voice kind but cruel, his arms strong, but also letting me drop to the concrete sidewalk.

I bounce back up and wiggle my way back into his arms like an intestinal parasite. He tries to soften the blow.

"It's not you, it's me," he says. "Okay, it's you, but it's also me. But just a little bit me. In fact, my part in it is so small that, statistically speaking, it's not me at all, but you. Since I'm a gentleman, however, I'll include myself. (But it's not me.)"

I make it back to the apartment I share with Kate, and she immediately sees that I'm crying.

"Ana! What's wrong? What did he do? Did he take you to bed and call you by _my _name?"

"Worse," I tell her.

"He called you by _Jose's_ name?"

"Worse than that. I was ready to give him my most precious gift, my celebrity nose-hair collection, but he told me... he told me..."

"That you're fat?"

"No."

"That you're ugly?"

"No."

"That you're fat and ugly?"

"No, he told me he didn't want to see me again. _Waaah!_"

"That _jerk!_" Do you know what you need? You need to go out and get drunk."

"But we have finals."

"Don't worry about your finals. My dad has already bought my grades for this semester, and I'm sure he'll do the same for you. _Of course_," she says seductively, giving me a conspiratorial wink, "he may want _something_ in return."

"Like what?"

"Oh, I don't know," she says, looking around the room, feigning innocence. "Something like... _your celebrity nose-hair collection!_"

We're at the Old Plantation again. We come here all the time to dance. There's nothing but guys here, so you would think a girl could get lucky once in awhile, but I'm the kind of girl who couldn't get lucky in a men's prison with a fist full of pardons.

You know who's here, too? Sure, you do. Come on, take a guess. That's right... Jose. He comes by our table with a pitcher of margaritas.

"By the time we're done with you tonight, honey," he says, "you'll be over that Christian Grey character."

I only _wish_ I could be over Christian Grey. I wish I could be _all _over him.

"I don't know how you can tell me that with a straight face," I say.

"Oh, honey, I'm gay," he says back. "I _never_ say anything with a straight face."

We drink, we laugh, we drink some more. All that booze goes to my head, and somehow makes it's way further south. I feel a heaviness in the lower part of my digestive tract and excuse myself to go to the little girl's room.

I go into a stall and make myself at home. My cell phone rings just as I'm getting in the mood. I look to see who it is... _OMG!_ It's _him! _How did he get my number? I guess when you're a billionaire you can get anything you want. Besides that, I gave it to him.

"Hello," I say, my voice a whisper.

"Ana?" he says in that magnificent voice of his. "Is this you? You sound like you're talking in an echo chamber."

"Um..." I say, "it must be the connection."

I shift uncomfortably on the seat.

"What was _that?_" he asks. Great, he's rich, he's handsome, AND he's got super hearing.

"What was what?"

"That noise I just heard."

"What noise? I didn't hear any noise."

"Is there a thunderstorm where you're at?"

"No, no. I'm inside, as a matter of fact. It's the connection, I tell you."

Just then, the toilet flushes in the stall next to mine.

"Uh... gotta go," I say, and hang up. My subconscious looks at me in disbelief.

She's wearing a gas mask.

No sooner do I exit the bathroom, than Jose accosts me aggressively in the hallway. To get away from him, I step outside the building where there are no witnesses.

"Ana!" he calls after me. "Ana! Don't go. _Cuando para mucho mi amore de felice corazon._"

I stop. It's serious when he starts speaking that _no-hablo-engles_ crap.

"Okay, okay, Jose... what do you want?"

He gets up close to me, our bodies barely not touching each other. I can feel the warmth of the dance floor on his skin. I smell the margarita on his breath. His face is nearly touching mine.

"Ana," he tells me, 'I don't know how to tell you this, but I've been wanting to tell you for the longest time."

"Tell me what?"

"It's just that, ah, well..."

"Come on, Jose, just spit it out," I say, spitting on the sidewalk to encourage him.

"We've been friends a long time, and, I, well, ah... _I've started writing a humor blog, and I want you to read it!_" he finally says, it all comes gushing out at once like something that gushes out really quick and all at once.

So, _that's_ what it is. Man, I can't even go to _Walmart_ without running a gauntlet of people wanting me to read their blogs. Even my subconscious has hidden away, not wanting _his _subconscious to show her his latest story.

"No," I tell him. "I can't."

"Come on, Ana," he pleads.

"No, really."

"Please, Ana, _carino_."

"You won't respect me if I do."

"I'll respect you even more if you do."

"Please, Jose. Don't force me."

"Your lips are saying no, but your eyes are saying yes."

"No."

"You know you want to."

"Jose... no.. please."

"You'll like it, I promise."

"THE LADY SAID NO!"

"Holy moly!" I say, only I don't say "moly."

It's Christian Grey, and he's _here!_

Jose puts his blog back in his pants, and disappears so fast you would have thought that Immigration just showed up.

Christian watches Jose furiously as he leaves. He chants, "Attica! Attica!" at him, his fist pumping dramatically in the air like Al Pacino in _Dog Day Afternoon_. I guess Mr. Grey must have been out conducting important business with Willie Nelson when he called me, because the wrinkly old unbathed-looking country outlaw is standing just behind him. He has Grey's back. Maybe, when he's done, he'll even give it back. Hmm, if I didn't know it was Willie Nelson, I could swear it was just some random homeless guy off the street.

Christian looks magnificent. He's wearing a three-piece white suit made from the finest Italian polyester money can buy. The buttons to his black _faux_-silk shirt are undone, showing off an impressive gold chain with a large religious medallion dangling in the front framed by an expanse of hairy chest. His black platform shoes glisten like a sparkly vampire in the evening light. His hair is combed back like greased lightning, ready to fight... or to make love.

Mr. Grey has something else in mind.

He grabs my hand hard, almost hurting me, and drags me back into the club. As if on cue, the DJ starts playing "You Should Be Dancing" by the Bee Gees. The crowded dance floor parts like Moses and the Red Sea. Christian spins me around furiously, and then suddenly stops, one hand pointing in the air, and the other on his hip. I can only stand back in my red dress and look at him in awe.

Oh, if I could only describe to you how beautifully he danced that night, but that would take some real talent, so I won't. After he finishes his solo routine down the dance floor and back up, he takes me by the hand and starts to spin me. Spinning and spinning. Faster and faster. I'm having such a good time I start to throw up. I look like a lawn sprinkler, shooting out vomit on the crowd. Not all of the crowd, mind you. Just the lucky few who happen to be standing closest to us.

"We're leaving," he tells me. _Jeez_, doesn't anybody ever _ask_ anybody any more?

I look for Kate. I see her macking on Willie Nelson on the dance floor. If I know Kate, she's going to make his blue eyes cry in the rain, if you get my drift.

"Look," I tell Mr. Grey, nodding my head toward the lusty couple. "Kate and your friend Willie Nelson won't even know we've left."

"Who?" Christian asks, looking in the direction I'm indicating.

"Your friend. The guy Kate's practically having sex with on the dance floor. Willie Nelson."

Christian turns back, and we start heading toward the door.

"That's not Willie Nelson," he tells me.

The information makes my head swim, and I can feel the floor rising up to meet my face.

"Fudge!" I hear Mr. Grey say.

Only he doesn't say "fudge."


	5. Chapter 5

I'm having a wonderful dream.

In it, I'm sleeping and dreaming that I'm asleep. I can't wait to wake up, because, when I do, I'll be triply refreshed. (And, yes, I did just make up the word "triply.") In my dream, I see my subconscious. She's snoring like a pig.

Christian Grey walks into the room, and I rouse from my slumber. I can't believe how comfortably I slept, but then I'm used to falling asleep in strange places. Mr. Grey-hair wet, skin glistening with beads of water-has just gotten out of the shower. He's still wearing the red rubber ball. Only not on his nose.

I yawn and stretch. Oh my gosh! I'm completely naked underneath the silk sheets!

"Did I...?" I ask, seductively.

"No," he answers.

"Did you...?" I ask, accusingly.

"No."

"Did we...?" I ask, disappointedly.

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure," he laughs, classily adjusting the ball. "I was there."

"I mean, I'm completely naked. Did you do that?"

"Did I do what?" he asks.

"Take off my clothes and put me to bed."

"No. That was Doobie, my manservant. _He_ put you to bed."

"And where did _you_ sleep?" I ask, hopefully.

"In the same bed, with you," he tells me, matter-of-factly.

_In the same bed?_

Jeez, you would think a nice place like Motel 6 would have a suite with a second bedroom. I can't believe we spent the whole night in the same bed and didn't have sex. What are we? Married?

"Can I ask you a question?" he says, asking me a question.

I nod.

"How can these chapters be so long when nothing ever happens in them?"

I have no answer.

We sit for breakfast. I'm famished, but I eat lightly, not wanting to seem like a glutton.

A full ham later, we're ready to leave. I dab daintily at the corners of my mouth with one corner of tablecloth.

"Even though it was the middle of the night," he was explaining to me, "and the stores were all closed, I sent Doobie out to buy you a choice of something non-vomity to wear. It's on the bed. Take your pick"

I look. As if by magic, the bed has already been made and two beautiful outfits are delicately laying on top. One is a catholic schoolgirl's uniform, and the other is a thong.

I choose the schoolgirl's outfit. I peek at the label. Oooh, it's from the Rosanne Barr collection. It fits perfectly.

He opens the front door. My parents are on the other side.

"Mom! Dad!" I say, surprised. "I thought you were dead!"

"We only wish we were," they say, eyeing my outfit.

Once inside the elevator, Mr. Grey gives me a hungry look.

"There's something about you, Miss Steele," he says, "but I can't quite put my finger on it."

"Well... maybe if you stood closer," I suggest, and with that he ravages me like the ravaging ravenger that he is.

His strong hands grab my head like a vise, and lifts my lips up to meet his. His talented hips press the going down button, but I don't take the hint. His flatulent foot holds the elevator door open, and a stern-looking nun walks into the cramped space at the last second.

I open one eye, and peek at my parents. What could they possibly be thinking about our lustful indiscretion?

_They're busy making out with each other!_

Is _tha_t what we look like?

_ Ewww!_

"What is it about elevators?" Christian asks the nun, as the elevator comes to a stop. She shrugs her shoulders.

The doors open, and his parents are standing on the other side.

"Mumsie! Dadsie! I thought you were dead!" he says, surprised. He disentangles himself from me, and gives them a big-boy hug.

"I only wish I was," his mother says, checking me out.

"Nice thong," his father says.

I can't believe it. Kate and Jose are here, too. They are both dressed in beautiful satin bridesmaid dresses.

"How was Willie Nelson?" I ask her with a sarcastic grin.

"It wasn't Willie Nelson," she tells me, sticking out her tongue and not in the fun way. She nods toward Jose.

"Dreamy," he says.

The biggest surprise of all is Father Pelado, my old neighborhood priest. I haven't seen him in years. Ever since he excommunicated me for boring him with my confession. I fondly remember the enthusiasm he use to show when it was time to feed the altar boys their communion wafers back in the rectory with the lights off to make it more spiritual.

I turn to Christian.

"How?" I ask him, stunned. "How did...?"

He puts a finger to my lips, silencing me. It smells like teen spirit.

"Will you marry me?" he says, getting down on one knee. But not in the fun way.

"Christian," my voice breaks, "I am near tears. I don't know what to say."

"Please," he says, "call me Mr. Grey. Now, will you? Will you?"

"Will you ever wake up?" Mr. Grey is saying as I wake with a start. I'm laying in his bed, naked underneath the silk sheets. Christian Grey is standing there, still wearing the red rubber ball.

Only not on his nose.


	6. Chapter 6a

Christian closes the passenger-side door to "the best damn Yugo money can buy."

And what a magnificent beast it is! It has _four _tires, all black. The front windshield is transparent so you can _see _through it. It also has a rear-view mirror and _two_ doors, with front seats that can be moved forward to allow access to the rear seat where he has me laying face-down with my wrists lovingly tied to my ankles behind my back, shaping me into a human triangle. My mouth is duct-taped "for safety."

Is that Paul's muffled voice I hear coming from the trunk. No, that would be silly.

The duct-tape eventually comes loose, another benefit of having an oily complexion, and I'm able to speak through it, half on and half off.

"Nice song," I sputter through the tape as it playfully flutters in and out of my mouth like a lover. I'm rocking gently forward and backward with every press of the gas pedal or brake.

"You like it?" Christian smiles, liking that I like it. "It's the band Southern Culture On The Skids." He thoughtfully checks on me in that conveniently located rear-view mirror I mentioned before. "Don't try to get up," he says. "We're still playing Don't-Let-The-Public-See-You-In-My-Car."

I listen to the words of the song. They're like poetry. Poetry written just for me.

_Well, she ain't good-looking_

_but I ain't that smart,_

_but that ol' woman_

_done stole my heart._

Is he trying to send me a message?

_Yes, we ain't got much,_

_but we got one another,_

_and when she pulls out them choppers,_

_she reminds me of mother._

Uh... maybe not.

_So put your teeth up on that window sill._

_Tell the neighbors to let us be._

_Oh, can't they see, __that we're in love._

_That we're in love._

_ Dang that Christian Grey_, I think to myself, only I don't think "dang." He drives me crazy constantly sending me these mixed signals.

"Do you enjoy the classics?" he asks, interrupting my revery. Reverie. Um... thoughtful contemplation.

"The classics?" _The classics?_

"Yes, the classics."

"I don't know," I admit, embarrassed by my lack of class and worldliness.

"If you're good, I'll introduce you to a great singer I'll never forget. Johnny, no, make that _Jimmy _Soul. You should listen to 'Happy for The Rest Of Your Life'."

"Really? Why?"

"You just should."

We're interrupted by the sound of his cell phone ringing through the car's speakers. He presses a button on the steering wheel, and a voice speaks. I guess when you're a billionaire your life is a constant stream of interrupting phone calls.

"No, thank you," he tells the caller, "I'm quite happy with my cell phone service," and hangs up.

He looks back at me apologetically.

"I'm sorry," he says. "when you're a billionaire, your life is a constant stream of interrupting phone calls."

He drives, and I'm just enjoying our opportunity for small talk.

"Yes," he tells me, "it's a dog-eat-dog world, and I _love_ the taste of dog. It's like the old saying: 'The enema of my enemy is my friend.' "

"Enemy," I tell him.

"What?"

"The _enemy _of my enemy is my friend."

He chuckles to himself, and lifts one sarcastic eyebrow in a John Belushi impersonation.

"If you say so," he says. "If you say so."

He grows quiet, thinking. What might be going through that beautiful head of his I'll never know.

"So, you're telling me and everybody else who can read that you've _never_ been kissed?" he says.

"That's right," I tell him. "Never."

"And no one's _ever_ held your hand?"

"Once, when I was a little girl, I tried to hold my mother's hand, but she wanted to wait until we got to know each other better."

He's shaking his head. I look at my subconscious. _She's _shaking her head, too. No, wait. That's just an epileptic attack. My subconscious will do _anything_ for a little bit of attention.

What the heck... so will I.

"Like George Washington, I cannot tell a lie... I'm a virginian."

"WHAT THE ...!" Mr. Grey says, only he doesn't say "...!"

He slams on the brake-_hard!_ The car lurches to a stop. I jerk forward, bounce off the front seats, and land back in my original position.

"You're a _virginian?_"

"Yes," I admit, sheepishly. I've just learned, honesty is overrated.

"You haven't done the oingo-boingo?"

"No."

"Made the beast-with-two-backs?"

"No."

"Been given the ol' slippity-slip?"

"No."

"Served anybody the poor-man's-caviar?"

"No, no, No, NO, _NO!_"

I'm on the verge of tears.

Mr. Grey tries to stifle his laughter, but it comes out in a spray of spit and goobers.

"Ana, sweet Ana," he comforts me. "I'm not laughing _at_ you, I'm laughing _with _you. Okay, I _am_ laughing _at _you, but I'm also laughing because it reminds me of something that happened when I was on Spring Break in Pensacola."

"Florida?"

"No, the soft drink. Anyway, as I was walking along the beach I came across a beautiful young girl, all alone, without even any arms or legs to keep her company."

"She didn't have any arms or legs?"

"That's correct. And the poor dear was crying. All by herself.

" 'What's the matter, miss?' I asked her. 'Why are you crying?'

"She sobbed even harder.

" 'I'm crying because, since I have no arms or legs, I've never been hugged,' she told me.

"So I kneeled close to her and hugged her tightly.

" 'Now you've been hugged,' I told her.

"But she was _still_ crying.

" 'Why are you _still_ crying?' I asked her.

" 'Because,' she said, 'since I don't have any arms or legs, I've never been _kissed_.'

"So I scooped her up in my arms and gave her a long, lingering kiss.

" 'Now you've been kissed," I told her.

"But this only made her cry _harder_.

" '_Jeez!_' I said. 'Didn't I just hug you and kiss you? What is it _now?_'

"Between sobs, she admitted her deepest, darkest secret.

" 'Because I have no arms or legs, I've never been _screwed_.'

"I'll always remember her blue, no, make that _brown _eyes. I was still holding her in my arms, so, in an act of compassion... I_ threw her into the ocean!_

" '_Now_ you're screwed!' I called after her.

"I like to think that, as she went under, she was grateful."

His eyes grew distant, lost somewhere in his memories of the past, and again he grew quiet and thoughtful.

He pulls up outside my duplex. And walks me to the front door. We make plans to go out later. And he leaves.

I'm sure it's just by accident that he forgets to untie me.


	7. Chapter 6b

When I finally make my way into my duplex I fully expect to see not-Willie-Nelson, but the surprising Kate Kavanaugh manages to surprisingly surprise me one again.

"Well, look who the cat dragged in," I say, and then stop in my tracks. There are two strange Asian men sitting at the table eating the breakfast of champions. From the bathroom, I can hear some strange noises. I guess Kate ate a bad clam.

"Who are you?" I asked the one who was obviously in charge.

"That is correct," he answered.

"What is correct?"

"I am Hu."

"That's what _I'm _asking."

"Asking what?"

"Who you are."

"That is correct."

"What is correct?"

"Hu I am."

"I don't understand."

"Hu is my name."

" '_What_ is my name?' "

"What?"

"You mean, 'what' is your name. Not 'who.' "

"My name is Hu, not What."

"That doesn't even make sense. You should learn how to speak English."

"Yu speak English," he says, pointing to his friend.

"Yes," his friend says.

"That's not you," I correct him. "That's _him. He_ speaks English."

"Him not he, him Yu."

"No, he's not."

"He not Yu?"

"No, _I'm _'you.' "

"You're Yu?"

"Yes," I say, pointing to myself. "Me. _Me!_"

He points to his friend.

"Yu 'he'?" he says, and looks at me for confirmation.

"That's right," I say, nodding my head.

He points at me.

"You 'Yu'?"

"_Now_ you've got it," I say, encouraging him.

He then points to himself.

"And me Hu."

I slap my hand down hard on the kitchen table.

"And _that's _what I'm trying to find out!"

Fortunately, that's when Kate finally comes out of the bathroom and straightens the whole thing out. She tells me that once she found out she wasn't diddling with the real Willie Nelson, she dumped that homeless guy like he was, well, homeless. _And that's_ when she picked up China's President Hu, who was in the country to ignore President Obama.

She took him home, and had wild Asian sex with him.

"He was insatiable," she tells me.

"Who?"

"That's right."

After they were done, he-Hu-went into the bathroom, and came out a minute later, ready for some more action. This happened five more times. They'd have sex. He'd go into the bathroom. And then he'd come out, raring to go _another_ time. And another time. And another time. And another time. And another.

Finally, _she _had to go to the bathroom, and _that's _where she discovered the six Chinese nationals who had snuck in the bathroom window the original Hu had opened when he first went in there.

I look at Hu. He's nodding in agreement, proud of himself.

"Mr. Chinese President," Kate tells him, pointing at me, "_this _is my friend Anastasia."

"_Anastasia?_" he asks, his eyes widening, which isn't an easy thing for him to do.

"Yes," I confirm. "Anastasia."

"Oooh," he says. "What a funny name."


	8. Chapter 6c

I'm at Clayton's, bored out of my mind. There's a ton of stuff to do, but I just don't feel like doing any of it. Kate calls that Snagged-Me-A-Rich-Man-itis.

I had told her of our plans to go out later.

"Don't forget the way to a man's heart," she reminded me.

"His stomach?" I offered, hopefully.

"Further south," she corrected.

My boss, Mr. Clayton-the owner of the store and my friend Paul's uncle-asks me if I know where he is.

"You're standing right in front of me," I answer.

"Not me, you idiot. _Paul!_ Have you heard from him?"

"Well, I thought I heard him yelling for 'hep' from the trunk of Christian Grey's car, but why would he be in Christian Grey's trunk and why would he be yelling 'hep'? What does 'hep' even mean?"

We both get a hearty chuckle out of my ignorance.

Crockett is waiting for me when I finally clock out and leave the hardware store. He's supposed to drive me to Christian's office "or die trying."

Thanks to Kate, I'm ready for whatever's about to happen. Besides being groomed and deloused to within an inch of my life, she also made me do a short line of a white powdery substance "for energy."

"What is it?" I asked her.

"Nose candy," she answered.

Oh, goody... I like candy.

And then she had me take a few puffs from a hand-rolled cigarette "to take the edge off."

"What is it?"

"Herb."

Besides their various medicinal properties, herbs are also a nice way to season your food without using salt. Salt is _poison!_ If you don't believe me, just ask Lot's wife.

"Here, take this," she said, handing me a pill. "It'll keep you from getting the munchies and give you _additional _energy."

"What is it?"

"Speed," she said.

_Speed?_

Only my _favorite _movie of all time. What's good enough for Sandra Bullock...

"And for that additional energy, take this," she said, handing me _another _little pill. "It's a 'lude."

"Allude to what?"

"Exactly."

She waited a few minutes, then...

"How do you feel?"

"Totally sober."

"Good," she said, and handed me a little blue pill.

"And what's _this?_" I asked her.

"Insurance."

Once I'm at Christian's office at the top of the building, we immediately catch the elevator down to the first floor.

"Where are we going?" I ask him.

"Someplace special," he says.

We step off the elevator-_What is it about elevators?_-walk out of the building, and step into the limousine I arrived in. Crockett holds the rear door open for both of us and accidentally slams it shut on my hand.

"Sorry, ma'am," he apologizes, and then does it again.

I don't care. I'm in love.

"Where are we going?" I ask Christian again.

"You'll see."

Crockett drives us to the back of the building, where the prickly Mr. Grey's personal helicopter sits on his private helipad. I look up at Christian perplexed.

"Where are we going?" I ask a final time.

"Shut your pie hole."

We climb into the helicopter, and, as Christian straps me in, his hand "accidentally" brushes against my breast.

"I wish they were bigger," I admit to him.

"What?" he says. He seems honestly confused about my confession.

"My breasts. I wish they were bigger."

"Try rubbing toilet paper on them."

"Toilet paper? Does that really work?"

"Why not? Look what it did to your bottom."

As it turns out, the hand belongs to Crockett. I accidentally sat on him. Silly me, that's how I lost my cat.

Mr. Grey straps himself in next as a voice comes over the helicopter's radio.

"Ground control to Major Tom," the voice says.

I look at Christian in surprise, and mouth the words, _Major Tom?_ He shrugs sheepishly. Who knew he was into Bowie? What a freak!

After a gentle reminder to take our protein pills and put our helmets on, ground control okays us for take-off. As I feel the ground move away from us, it reminds me of Chuck Norris. Did you know that when Chuck Norris does a push-up, he doesn't lift himself away from the Earth, he pushes the Earth away from _himself!_

That's a _fact!_

The helicopter goes up, up, and lands on a helipad _at the top_ of the building.

Heli_crap! _

"Weren't we just here?"I ask him.

"The rich are a curious bunch," he explains. "We all have our quips and quirks, our odds and ends, our abbotts and costellos." But apparently no common sense. "Why sit when you can stand? Why stand when you can walk? Why walk when you can drive? Why drive when you can fly?"

I look at my inner goddess. She fell asleep during his monologue. I wake her up.

"Hey! Where's my subconscious?" I ask her.

"She gave me five bucks to take her place once your boyfriend started talking."

Lucky her.

"And this, Ana, is my Batcave," he says leading me back inside the building, and dang if we don't walk into a room that looks _exactly_ like Batman's Batcave.

_There's _the cap and cowl. _There's_ the giant penny. _There's _the mechanical dinosaur. _There's _the giant joker card. It's _exactly _like the comic book. Aw... and _there's _a cute little kitten dressed in a Batcat costume.

"That's Fluffy," Christian tells me. "The only thing I've ever loved."

"Well, riddle me this, Christian," I say. "Am I gonna get lucky here or what?"

I'm surprised by my boldness, but, let's face it, I'm a 21-year-old virginian whose lower extremities haven't been filled since I accidentally sat on my cat.

Mr. Grey is surprised, too. He hands me several pages of paper-a contract-and asks me to sign my name at the bottom. I don't bother reading what it says, and sign _My Name _where it indicates.

"Now, come to mama!" I say, opening my arms and shimmying my shoulders as I waddle toward him seductively.

"Not so fast," he says, giving me a loving shove back.

I bump into the giant penny. It falls over, tears the huge joker playing card in two, and lands on the cat.

OMG! _Fluffy! _

I look frantically at my inner goddess. Her eyes are wide and her jaw just hit the floor. She wakes my subconscious up, gives her her five dollars back, makes like an amoeba, and splits!

Fluffy _can't_ be dead, can she?

"Meow!" comes a plaintive cry from under the giant penny. Oh, thank Goobers... Fluffy's ALIVE!

Relieved, I put a hand on the mechanical dinosaur to steady myself, and that causes it to take one giant step forward.

_On the penny!_

"YEOW!"

_Splat!_

"Fluffy? Fluffy?"

Thankfully, Christian has his back to me. He's moved on to talking about onions and doesn't notice. I have to distract him. So...

"What do you mean 'not so fast'?" I say, feigning anger.

"I mean, why hurry? We have all night and so many pages to fill. Besides, we have to go over the Do's and Don'ts."

"The Do's and Don'ts?"

"Yes, the Do's and Don'ts. The birds and bees. The simons and garfunkles. The things you'll _do_ because I want you to, and the things you _don't_... unless I tell you to."

"That sounds fair."


	9. Chapter 7a

The first thing I notice is the smell: broccoli. I never should have eaten at the House of Broccoli for lunch before our first date.

Christian leads me through a corridor away from the Bat-Cave. At the end of it is a door. He opens it. I try to peek through, shivering in antici..._payshun_.

Hmm... another door.

Beyond that one is an aperture, after the aperture, an egress. Once through the egress, we come upon-not a door-but a gate. He opens the gate, and, once through it, he bends down and opens a hatch on the floor, like the one in _Gravity_, but with oxygen. Through the hatchway, I see an opening. But an opening to what? I have no idea, but I must find out.

"Christian! Where are you taking me?" I ask him, putting away my thesaurus.

"Did you have broccoli for lunch?"

I nod.

"Jeez," he says, holds his nose, and enters the portal.

I follow him into a large room. It smells of oak and leather. The smell is overpowering, like a bathroom over-sprayed with air freshener. Um, not that I would know why anyone would need to over-spray a bathroom with air freshener.

I would describe the furniture decorating this room, but writing's hard work. When you combine a lack of imagination with a lack of gumption, all you're going to get is a lack of description.

I look on his bookshelf. Hmm.. _The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty _trilogy by A.N. Roquelaure. I look at his DVD collection. _Nine & 1/2 Weeks_, with Kim Bassinger and Mickey Rourke back when he used to bathe. Something familiar about all that, but I can't quite make the connection. My attention is diverted when I see...

In the middle of the room is a bed. A big bed. A _huge_ bed. Round, like the one in the master bedroom of the Playboy mansion, except without the 90-year-old horny guy in it.

On the bed, I see something. I walk over and pick it up. It's small, and fits easily in my hand. It has a thin leather handle about eight inches long. Kate tells me eight inches are good, but she won't tell me why. At one end of the handle is a flat square, maybe four inches by four inches, also made of leather.

Christian is eyeing me intently.

"It's called a fly-swatter," he says, his voice quiet and soft. "It amuses me to see how quickly one's skin turns pink after the first slap."

"I don't understand," I tell him. "You... _hit_ people?"

"I hit women."

"And they _let _you."

"Of course they let me... _I'm rich!_"

"And they _like_ it?"

"_I _like it, and, in the end, isn't that what's important?"

"Does it... _hurt?_"

"Not a bit." He thought about what he just said. "Um, you _were_ talking about _me_, weren't you? Because it sure does hurt the other person... _a lot_."

"And where do I fit into all this, Christian?"

Christian pauses. Thinks. And then says, "I... want you to be... my... girlfriend."

"You're _girlfriend?_ Aren't you too old to have a girlfriend?"

"And aren't you too old to have never been kissed?"

I don't answer. He takes my hand and leads me to the bed.

"But I won't hurt you, Ana," he promises, and I believe that promise. If there's one thing you can believe in from a guy who's trying to get you into a round bed, it's his promise.

"What do you want me to do?"

"I'm glad you asked. This room-_this bed_-is yours... if you want it. You can decorate it however you like."

"Can I change the color?"

"No."

I think about that. And then it hits me.

"You want me to _move in?_"

"Of course not, Ana. Don't make me laugh. Ah, ha, ha, ha! I SAID DON'T MAKE ME LAUGH!" He scrapes something from the bottom of his shoe. "No, Ana, sweet Ana. What I want is for you to be at my beck and call. When I crook my finger, I want you to run. When I say jump, I want you to ask me 'How high?' "

I _knew _it. He _does_ like me!

"How many women?" I blurt. Darn that broccoli.

"How many women what?"

"How many women have you... done this to?"

"Done what to?"

"Whatever it is you're talking about?"

"What am I talking about?"

"Well, I assume you want me to do something?"

"Do what?"

"_That's_ what I'm trying to find out!"

"Don't worry about what you're going to have to do just yet. First I have to explain The Rules to you."

"The rules?"

"Yes, The Rules."

He pauses. Time passes. Somewhere in the distance, a dog howls.

"The rules?" I ask again.

"Yes, The Rules."

Hmm... the rules.


	10. Chapter 7b

The Do's & Don'ts? The Rules? What's this control freak narcicist going to call them next? The Ten Commandments?

"I also call them the Ten Commandments," he says handing me several sheets of paper and a potato.

"What's with the potato?" I ask him.

"What potato?"

Hmm... the Ten Commandments.

Unlike Moses, he's oblivious to the burning bush. I can't believe it, over a hundred pages in, and I _still_ haven't seen any action.

I look at the cover sheet. At the top is Christian's company's logo. A cross. But instead of a crucified Overlord Xenu in Galactic Prison, the one being crucified is a winking Christian Grey himself. And with one loose hand, he's offering-not salvation-but a shiny new penny.

Underneath are two words written in a foreign language. Latin perhaps?

_iamsam samiam_

I don't understand the significance. Or the symbolism. But I do understand I'm hungry.

"Before I go through this..." he says, indicating the contract, "...with you, I just want you to know that you don't have to do this. You're free to leave at any time, no hard feelings."

_No hard feelings?_ _So what else is new?_

He goes on: "I'll call Crockett. He'll be more than happy to take you home and put a bullet in your head."

Just as I eye the potato for immediate ingestion, he casually takes it from my hand.

_Dang that Christian Grey! How does he know?_

He places the raw root in the front pocket of his pants, giving him a nice bulging effect that Kate likes to call the "nice bulging effect."

My thoughts are swirling in my head like flies around an unwashed _chimichanga._ I have butterflies in my stomach. I hope Christian doesn't notice them missing from his collection. I'm so _confused._

"Can I have that potato back?" I ask him.

"What potato?"

_That Christian Grey! That Christian Grey! Oh, how I hate that Christian Grey. He wants to talk, I want to play. Oh, how I hate that Christian Grey._

He removes the cover sheet and we go through the contract line by line.

He asks me, "Will you do it on that bed..." and he points to the bed in question, as if there are any other beds. What does he take me for? An idiot? "...you idiot?"

I answer him, "I will do it on that bed."

"Will you do it on your head?"

"I will do it on that bed. I will do it on my head. I will do it all, you'll see. And I will do it all for free."

"Will you do it in this room? Will you do it very soon?"

"I will do it in this room, and I will do it very soon, and I will do it on that bed, and I will do it on my head. I will do it all, I swear. And I will do it all with flair."

"Will you surrender yourself to me? Will you surrender willingly?"

"I will surrender myself to you. Willingly? That's what I do. And I will do it in this room, and I will do it very soon. And I will do it on that bed, and I will do it on my head. There is nothing that I won't do, as long as I do it all for you."

"Will you do it and beg me please? Will you beg me, 'Please, with cheese'?"

"I will do it and beg you please. I'll even beg you 'please, with cheese.' I will surrender myself to you. Thrillingly, fillingly, willingly, too. In this room, and very soon. In this bed, and on my head. All these things, I swear I'll do. All these things, and others, too."

"Will you promise not to tell? Will you promise not to smell?"

"I wouldn't, couldn't ever smell. My hygiene's good. I wash with gel. And I will keep my lips closed tight. Unless, of course, they're nudged just right. I'll egg and beg you 'please, with cheese,' and sweet surrender willingly."

"Like a brain-washed Limbaugh manatee?"

"Like a mind-numbed robot chimpanzee. And I will do it on that bed. And I will do it on my head. And I will do it in this roomie, with an itchie hitchie gitchie goomie. Just, please, let's do it very soonie. Let's bip and bop and bang and boomie. Yes, I will do all that you say. And I'll do YOU, my Christian Grey."

Christian eyes me intently.

"I think we're ready to take this to the next level," he finally says, reaches into his pant pocket and pulls something out and offers it to me.

_OMG! What can it be? A ring? So soon?_

"Here," he says. "Have a potato."


	11. Chapter 7c

After dinner I take a closer look through the sheets of paper.

Hmm... the only thing they have typed on them is "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." Over and over again. Every one.

All except for the last two pages.

The first one is a purchase order for my soul in exchange for carnal pleasure. The other one is an I.O.U. for my firstborn male child.

"Do you want me to sign these, too?" I ask.


	12. Chapter 8a

Christian is pacing back and forth in panic. He runs a hand through his hair, then the other, and then his feet. He's looking more Brad Pittiful than Brad Pitt.

I look up.

Holy cow! It's already Chapter Eight and still no chitty chitty bang bang? The way it looks, I'm going to have to buy Christian's little soldier some ginkgo biloba, because it's forgotten how to stand at attention. When it comes to getting lucky with Mr. Rich Guy, it seems I'd have a better chance defeating Tywin Lannister for the control of Westeros. I'd go on, but, like an aging Ron Jeremy, I've only got one or two good metaphors in me and then I'm ready for a nap.

I offer Christian my hand and help him up from the fetal position he's curled up in on the floor.

"Why didn't you tell me you've never had sex?" he asks.

"I did," I answer.

"When was that?"

"When you weren't listening."

"Darn right I wasn't!" He shakes his head. "And to think, all of the filthy disgusting things I wanted to do to you."

"You make sex sound so... so... dirty."

"Sex IS dirty... _if _you do it right. Sex is like a roller coaster, Ana. It's fast, it's furious, and on a hot day you really sweat a lot." He eyes me a crotch level, because that's where the joke is. "You're what, twenty-one? Your hoo-hah's almost past it's expiration date, and you haven't even been kissed."

"I have so been kissed."

"Pets and stuffed animals don't count."

"I'm not talking about pets and stuffed animals. Although, I did kiss my dog once, but that was the only time."

"Why?"

"It made him throw up."

"I'm talking about a _man_, Ana. Have you ever been kissed by a _man_?"

"My grandfather kissed me goodbye once."

"How was it?"

"He slipped me the tongue."

"How is this even possible, Ana? You're beautiful in an ugly kind of way. I don't understand why there hasn't been a long line of men waiting to take advantage of you."

I'm on the verge of tears. My bottom lip is quivering like public housing at the Andreas fault line.

I look at Christian Grey. He's eyeing that very bottom lip. He _wants _that very bottom lip. My bottom lip is like a magnet to his steely resolve. Like catnip to a kitty. Like an all-you-can-eat buffet to Monica Lewinski.

He cups my chin between his thumb and forefinger and gives it a nice wiggle.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," he tells me. "Ana, you don't understand. I'm not just _some_ kind of monster, I _am_ a monster. You don't know what you'd be getting yourself into."

I do my best Groucho Marx impersonation.

"But I'd know what _you'd _be getting into," I tell him, wagging an imaginary cigar in my imaginary hand.

"Run, Ana," he begs. "Run as fast as you can."

"Oh, Christian," I over-emote, "is the thought of making whoopee with me _that_ disgustipating to you? Am I _that_ hideous to look at?"

"No, Ana. It's just that the last virgin I dated was a disappointing lover. She just laid there, waiting for the Rohypnol to wear off. Later, she would bring her cat. That stupid thing would _never_ stop spitting and scratching and crying and biting. The cat was nice, though."

I look deep into his eyes where I see Vladimir Putin.

_Knock, Knock! _

"Who's there?"

"Vladimir Putin."

"Vladimir Putin who?"

"Ol' Vladimir sure is Putin the screws to the Ukraine."

"Christian," I tell him, "I want this. I _want_ this. Don't be such a passive-aggressive."

"I'm not a passive-aggressive," he corrects me. "I'm aggressively passive."

"I don't care _what _you are. You promised me, and I'm holding you to that promise."

"And I'm a man of my word, Ana. Unfortunately, that word is 'sicko'."

"I don't care, Christian. I. Don't. Care." My voice is a staccato, which I think is some kind of Italian food. That makes me hungry.

"As you wish," Christian finally gives in.

He lifts me in his arms. How romantic, he's going to carry me to his bed. He takes two steps and puts me down.

"Um," he says, breathing heavily. From the excitement, I think. "You don't mind walking the rest of the way, do you?"

"No," I tell him.

"Fine, fine," he says. "Give me a few seconds. I'll catch up."

I go to the bed and take off all my clothes. _Finally_, some action. Now I get to experience... _Hey! Is that a transporter?_

"A transporter?" he asks.

"You know, like in Star Trek."

"My dear, the technology to 'beam' something from one place to another doesn't exist. You must be as smart as you are beautiful."

"Thanks."

Er.. ah... _wha?_

Christian stands before me. Naked. Not a stitch of clothing on. I can't help it, my eyes are drawn to his bo diddley, because it helps the joke. It reminds me of Vin Diesel, bald and inarticulate.

I bite my bottom lip in anticipation. He drools in response. Pavlov's dork.

"I've wanted to do this from the first moment I saw you," he tells me, finally getting his wind back.

"What? Bite my bottom lip?" I say, pretending a coyness I don't possess. I lost it betting on the Cowboys.

"No," he says. "Show you my Vin Diesel impression."

He looks at me laying before him. A feast ready to be consumed.

"Have you ever considered getting a tattoo?" he asks me, out of the blue.

"I do have a tattoo," I tell him.

"You do?"

"Yes," and I show him. "It's the Chinese character for '_Yo Quiero Taco Bell'._"

"I was thinking more along the lines of a full-sized picture of a thin body tattooed over your fat one."

Geez... all this conversation. I'm hoping it doesn't affect my ability to have an orgasm. Kate tells me that _everything_ affects a woman's orgasm.

"What about men?" I remember asking her.

"For men," she told me, "only _two_ things will: pepper and spray."

Fortunately, I don't see either of those items.

Christian climbs into bed with me.

"Get ready, Ana," he tells me. "Get ready for the most exciting night of your life."

I am _so_ ready for this. I've only been waiting my whole life to... to... zzzzzzzzzzzzz.


	13. Chapter 8b

When I wake up, I see Christian standing at the foot of the bed taking off his Haz-Mat suit.

He looks at me and smiles.

"Was it good for you, darling Ana?"

I look around. Why do I smell bacon grease?

"Yes, darling..."

"Call me Mr. Grey."

"...it was wonderful. It was everything I dreamed it would be. It's just that... that..."

"What?"

"You know how a woman has an entrance _and _an exit?"

"Yes."

"Why does my exit hurt?"

"I didn't plan on that, my darling. When I rolled you over, I thought you were flirting with me."

He climbs back into bed with me. The lingering smell of the rubber suit is intoxicating.

"So... I'm no longer a... a..."

"No," he says, "not anymore."

"Now I'm... I'm..."

"Yes, now you are a woman."

"A woman?"

"Yes, a woman."

"A woman."

"That's right, a woman."

"A woman..."

"Yeah, a woman."

"I can't believe it, I'm finally a..."

"Ana..."

"What?"

"Shut up."

We lay in bed, making small talk.

"Did you have an orgasm?" he asks, and I love him for how he's always looking out for me. "Because I got mine."

"I'm not sure," I tell him.

"What do you mean you're not sure?"

"I have no point of reference."

"I'm sorry, my sweet dove. How thoughtless of me. Tell me, how do you feel?"

"I feel guilty, like I've done something wrong. I also feel soiled and used and vaguely unsatisfied."

"Well... that's _exactly _what an orgasm feels like," he says, giving himself a high-five. "Congratulations."

That being settled, I look around. There's not one picture of himself or his family. Or any indication of who he is or what he likes to do. I ask him how he spends his time when he's not busy exploiting the poor.

"Until I met you, I spent all my free time searching for my mother's killer."

I sit up suddenly.

"You did?" I ask him, my jaw dropping to the floor.

"Yes," he tells me, "but they've all wanted too much money. I like you, Ana. I like you a lot. You listen, and that's a rare commodity in females. Before I met you, if I wanted a woman to listen to me, I'd have to begin each sentence with 'I'm rich" or 'Here's a dollar.'"

I snuggle up in his arms, and he hugs me close.

"Sleep, sweet Anastasia, sleep," he murmurs, a tear welling up in the corner of one eye, his good one.

Christian Grey? Sad? I don't believe it.

I close my eyes, the smell of the Chloroform comforting.

So... Christian Grey has a sensitive side.

What a wuss.


	14. Chapter 9a

Light fills the room. I open my eyes to a sleeping Christian Grey beside me. He looks so cute in his jammies. Transformers. I could lay here and gaze at him forever, but I've got to see a man about a horse, if you get my drift.

I walk into his bathroom. Wow, what a view. It looks like you could perform surgery in there, all white and chrome. There's an interesting touch on the floor's white tiles. Red splatters splattered by hand. It looks like a Jason Pollock painting.

After making room for breakfast, I leave the fan running and shut the door behind me. I look around his apartment because I'm nosy. Speaking of my nose, it leads me to the kitchen where I discover an old friend, the refrigerator. A smile comes to my lips. I know _exactly_ what I'm going to do.

I'm going to make Christian breakfast.

When he wakes up hours later, he walks in on me dancing playfully in the kitchen.

"I didn't know you could Charleston?" he says.

_OMG!_ I'm so embarrassed.

"I... I... made you breakfast," I stammer, and point with my hand toward the table. "Captain Crunch for two?"

He smiles appreciatively.

"And she can cook," he says, playfully.

"Would you like some tea?" I ask, blushing in embarrassment.

"What are you, British? This is America, gimmie coffee."

We sit and have a delightful breakfast. There's playful banter, bantering playfulness, and continued usage of the word "playfully."

"Didn't you say you never sleep with anyone?" I tease him.

"My life," he says, "like this story, is full of contradictions."

"Yeah... you're full of it, all right."

My subconscious walks into the kitchen. Hungover, as usual.

Ignoring my subconcious, I check the messages on my phone. There's about fifty texts. ALL from Kate.

"RU OK Ana?"

What does the word "ruok" even mean?

"Bring home some milk. We're out."

"And toilet paper."

"Fan mail from some flounder?" Christian asks, subtly pointing out my rudeness and his fondness for Rocky & Bullwinkle in one dusty pop culture reference.

"It's Kate," I tell him. "I should call her. She's worried."

"By all means," he says, waving his hand toward my phone magnanimously. He's like the snake giving Eve the okay to eat the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge. He's like Caesar giving a thumbs up to a fallen Roman gladiator. He's like Siskel & Ebert. The skinny one, not the fat guy.

I call, and Kate answers.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Kate. It's Ana."

"Who?"

"Ana."

"With one 'n' or two?"

"One."

"Well, she's still in bed, but I can take a message."

"No, Kate. I'm not calling _for _Ana. I _am _Ana. I called because I knew you'd be worried."

"About who?"

"About _me_. Ana. Ana Steele."

"How do you spell that?"

"_Steele_. With an 'e' at the end."

"Now I know you're lying. 'Steel' isn't spelled with an 'e' at the end."

And she promptly hangs up on me.

I stand there, holding a dead phone in my hand.

"Did you allay her fears, my dear?" Mr. Grey asks me, cocking an eyebrow. What hasn't this guy cocked?

I nod and put my phone down.

"Hey," he says playfully, "whoever doesn't need a bath, take a step forward."

As I'm about to take a step forward, Christian puts up a hand.

"Not so fast you," he says.

The bath is wonderful. The water's warm, the bubbles are plenty, and the water from the water-hose he's spraying me with has just the right amount of force.

When we're done he wraps me in a towel. It's a cute one with pictures of little doggies on it.

"This is so plush," I tell him.

"I don't remember saying you could talk," he says, cutting me short. And then, "There's something I want you to do, Ana. Are you willing?"

I nod my head.

He takes off his tie. What he's doing wearing a tie with his pajamas, I don't know, but the rich are different than you or I, my friends. He walks behind me, and ties the tie around my eyes like a blindfold.

"It _is _a blindfold, you idiot," he says.

_OMG!_ I think to myself. _WTF's_ _gonna happen next?_


	15. Chapter 9b

He leads me down the hall. I bump into three walls and a door-jam, and then we're where he wants us to be.

"Get on your knees," he orders.

And I do.

"Stick out your hand, palm up. I'm going to place something in it."

And he does.

It's longer than it is wide. It's so big I need to hold it with both my hands, and it feels cool against my skin. I close my fingers around it. It is both soft, yet hard to the touch. Smooth, yet ridged. Armed, yet dangerous.

"Push it forward," he demands.

And I do.

"Now back."

And I do.

"Forward.

And I do.

"Back."

And I do.

As it comes back toward me I open my mouth like it's the most natural thing in the world for me to do.

"Don't," he says. "You'll hurt your teeth."

_Hurt? My? Teeth?_

His hand slips just under mine. I can both hear and feel a switch being flipped. There's a low rumbling, and whatever's in my hand comes to life with an arousing vibration.

_OMG!_ Could it be what I think it is?

I open one eye and peek.

_It is! It is!_

"I didn't say you could peek," he chastises me.

There's an undertow of anger in his voice. A sewer of madness, if you will. Not 'madness' as in crazy, but 'madness' as in anger. But since I've already used the word anger, I didn't want to use it again. How about if I say 'madinousity'? _Of course _it's a word. I just used it, didn't I?

"I'll punish you later," he says.

"Oh... Christian..." I pant. "Is it... can it really be a... a Nimbus 5000 vacuum cleaner? I've only heard of them. I never thought they really existed."

"Only seven were made," he tells me. "I own three."

"Oh... my... goobers, I can _feel _the suction _through_ the handle and _into_ the very _core_ of my being."

Christian puts his lips close to my ear.

"It sucks good, yes?" he whispers huskily.

"It sucks good, yesss..." I answer.

"You like the way it sucks?" he whispers into my other ear.

"I looove the way it sucks."

"How does all that sucking make you feel?" he begins in one ear, and finishes in the other.

My inner goddess is doing the hokey-pokey, and she turns herself around...

"Hmmm... it makes me feel..."-I look for exactly the right word-"...supercalifragilistic."

"What?"

"Supercalifragilistic."

"Expialidocious."

Now it was my turn to say, "What?"

"You mean 'expialidocious.' It makes you feel supercalifragilisticexpialidocious."

"No, just supercalifragilistic."

...and _that's_ what it's all about.

The vibration is driving me wild as I keep moving the Nimbus 5000 back and forth, back and forth. I don't know how much more I can take before I'll explode in an explosion of exploding explosions. In the vacuuming world, what I'm holding in my hand is known as The Suckmaster Supreme.

"I can feel it in my skin," I moan.

"I can feel it in my bones," I cry.

"I can feel it in the little man at the front of the boat," I whimper.

"Who?"

"The little man at the front of the boat."

"The little man at the...er ... ah... _wha?_"

"The front of the boat! The front of the boat!"

"And what does the little man say?"

"He says to... to... _keep on vacuuming!_"

And I do.

Until the vacuuming ends in a crescendo of spent passion.

"That was incredible," Christian tells me, breathlessly. He looks at the carpet. It's clean. "Is this your first time?"

"Yes," I confess. Not bad for a first-timer.

"I don't believe it," he goes on. "You didn't even get a cramp."

I blush with pride. He's amazed at my sucking ability. In fact, so am I. Who knew?

"You're really good at sucking. I mean, _really _good at sucking. You sucked it all up. You didn't leave _anything_."

He stands close to me, our bodies almost touching. I can feel his warmth, his aura, the size of his wallet.

"I've _never _seen this carpet so clean," he says.

I stand on my tip-toes and lift my head slightly to kiss him lightly on the lips.

He pulls away.

"I'm sorry," he says." I've never been able to kiss a girl after she's just vacuumed."

_Beast!_


	16. Chapter 9c

The doorbell rings.

Christian looks at his watch/slash/security monitor.

"Oh," he says, recognizing someone being let into his Fortress of Solitude by someone else. I can only see half of the screen from the angle I'm at, and I see what looks like Larry King, except with long pointy ears. "It's just my mother."

"It's just your mother?" I ask. "She looks like Larry King, except with long pointy ears." And then it hits me. "It's Just Your Mother?!" I yell, my voice raising a few octaves.

"IT'S JUST MY MOTHER!" he yells back at me, his voice raising a few octaves higher than mine.

"AHHHH!" I scream, running around the room in panic, my Bert and Ernie's bouncing wildly in front of me.

"AHHHH!" he screams, pressing the palms of his hands against his cheeks. He looks like if the kid from Home Alone had a baby with Edvard Munch's The Scream.

"Buckle up," we can hear his mother announce through his tie clip/slash/intercom. "It's going to be a bumpy night."


	17. Chapter 10a

"Christian, who's that queer little fellow?" I ask, curious.

"That's Doobie, my man servant. And believe me, he's no queer. He keeps going on and on about some girl he left back home in England."

"I can't believe you really do have a manservant. I thought it was just a dream."

"Yes, I acquired him in England when I was going to college."

"Oxford?"

"Hogwarts. I found him during Spring Break. He was buried by the sea in the gardens of Shell Cottage, a little place we rented on the outskirts of Tinworth, Cornwall. That's right next door to Plegm Falls. Some four-eyed hooligan had left him for dead, but I dug him up, gave him an aspirin, and he sobered right up. Aspirins are good for everything. Everything, except bringing a dead hooker back to life. Just ask my old college roommate, Dave Attell. Anyway, Doobie claims I saved his life and he was therefore indebted to me for life. Personally, I think he was just a doper who saw an opportunity for a free ride. Be that as it may, whatever you do, don't give him any socks."

I wake up and realize that's the longest bit of exposition I've ever heard from Christian Grey. I wipe some drool from one corner of my mouth-the droopy one-and say, "He looks like Larry King with pointy ears."

Indeed, he's even wearing suspenders to hold up a potato sack he was using for clothing. I find that... odd.

"Don't be an idiot," Christian chastises me. "That potato sack is made from the finest imported burlap money can buy."

We see Doobie escort Christian's mother off screen.

"I guess we'd better get dressed, Ana," he tells me. "That is, _if_ you want to meet my mother."

Meet his mother? Meet His Mother? OMG! He wants _me_ to MEET HIS MOTHER! The last time I was in this position... aw, who am I kidding? I've _never_ been in this position. The closest I've come is when my best friend invited me over her house to meet her family. We played Hide & Seek. I hid for days before I finally realized they had moved.

I look at my inner goddess. _Hey! Put that cucumber down! That's disgusting!_

"Christian," I say, "it's so soon. Do you _really_ want me to meet your mother?"

"Of course I do, Ana." he tells me. "You see, my mother fears I'm gay. She mistakenly got that impression when I told her Crocket won't stay on his side of the tub when we bathe. So, you see, you'd actually be doing me a favor, allaying my mother's suspicions and what not."

Is this the Pillow Talk I've always heard so much about? If so, what a disappointment. Yet, in the few hours I've known Christian, I've never seen him so... so... talkative. Revealing little bits and puzzle pieces of his life, leaving it for me to put the picture together. I wonder if it's a picture of something to eat?

"Now, be a dear," he tells me, "and get dressed. Let's see, where did I put my Haz-Mat suit?"

He's ready before I am. My hair's a mess. It has the matted texture of a dead cat. I do what I can with it, which isn't much. Larry, the third Stooge, had more manageable hair.

I pick up the same jeans and top I've been wearing for, oh, five days now. My jeans look as if they can stand on their own. I give it a try. They can. I smell the pits of my blouse. Hmm... why am I suddenly in the mood for a pepperoni pizza with extra parmesan cheese?

As usual, Christian comes to the rescue.

"If you like, you can pick something out of that closet," he tells me, pointing to a closet.

"You _bought_ me clothes?" I say, offended. "How _dare_ you be so presumptuous."

"Nonsense, they're Doobie's. He bought them for the day his girlfriend might visit."

Oh, that's different. Wearing another girl's clothes isn't beneath me. I can do stuff like that ever since I got rid of two little things called pride and self-esteem. Just ask Kate. I see a robe and a scarf. Some black round-framed glasses. And a stick. Hmm, not my style. I pick out a colorful summer dress. The perfect thing for winter. I dig around.

"Hmm, this is a nice bra," I say.

"It's Doobie's," I'm told.

"Any panties?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to go commando, dear. Unless you want to wear some edible panties I bought for you as a joke."

"I ate those last night."

"You'll really like my mother," Christian tells me, putting on the matching helmet to his Haz-Mat suit. "She's a feminist in the classic sense of the word. _Feminista_, from the Latin, meaning: To Hate Men. She likes to spend her time finding out what people are saying about her on Facebook, and then crushing them."

"What's Facebook?" I ask. "Is it that book with a face on it, like on _The Evil Dead_?"

"_What's Facebook?_ Ana, where have you been all your life? You don't own a car, a computer, or apparently a hairbrush. You don't have a job, the internet, or a clue. You barely know how to use your cell phone. And now you're telling me, you don't know what Facebook is?"

"Oh... _Face_book! I thought you said: _Taste_book. A book you, um, taste. You know, like Scratch & Sniff." I was bluffing, but I think he bought it.

"Anyway, she's a doctor. An OB-GYN."

"An... Obi Juan Kenobi? That old guy from the Mexican version of Star Wars?"

"Don't tell me you've never been to a gynecologist? That's a doctor for your hoo-hah."

"Christian, I've never been to a doctor, period, much less one for my hoo-hah.. My hoo-hah's never been sick a day in its life."

"Surely, you're joking."

"I'm not joking, and don't call me Shirley."

That Christian, sometimes he makes me _so_ mad. He is _such_ a Control Freak, and dang skippy I'm capitalizing those two words. First he wants me to get dressed. Then he wants me to meet his mother. And now he's telling me I need to see a doctor?

I shouldn't be surprised, though. That's what a control freak is, a freak who controls. He's such a freakishly controlling control freak, and I won't ever _stop_ calling him a control freak. Mainly because I've misplaced my thesaurus.

I look at my inner goddess. She's serving my subconscious a cucumber salad with a nice vinaigrette. They think he's a control freak, too.

"Ana," he coos apologetically. "My dear, sweet, dumb-as-a-stump Ana. At the very least you should give your hoo-hah an occasional self-examination."

"How often should I do that?"

"At least as often as I get a colonoscopy."

"Once a year?"

"Once a _week_. You'd be amazed by how many shiny new pennies my proctologist finds."

_Ew..._

He gives the top of his helmet a jaunty tap.

"Do think about what I've told you," he tells me, and then leaves. "Ta-ta! Cheerio! And all that."

When he's out of the room, I think about what he just said. It may seems odd at face value, but when you think about it, it makes perfect sense.

Hmm... I have a little time.

I look around. There's a circular mirror hanging by the door. It's about the size of a manhole cover. That would work.

I carefully take the mirror down and lay it flat on the floor in the middle of the room. I squat over it, lift my skirt and, feeling awkward, check out the view.

Just as I'm getting a good angle to the dangle, the door swings open.

"Mother, let me introduce you to Ana," I hear Christian tell her.

I don't want to, but I look up and give his mother a crooked smile. Christian stands there, shocked into silence.

"Hello," I squeak from my squatting position over the mirror.

His mother eyes me coldly.

"Hello, dear," she finally forces herself to say. "Do be careful not to fall into that hole in the floor."


	18. Chapter 10b

Meeting Christian's mother, Dr. Grace Transylvanian-Grey, is like meeting the queen. I'm talking about the queen who performs in the drag shows at the Old Plantation, a gay nightclub in Downtown El Paso. She is aloof. She is regal. And she smells of mothballs, but the expensive high-quality ones you buy at Target.

"Mother," Christian tells us, "I'd like to introduce you to Ana. Ana, this is my mother."

I give her a classy salute, accidentally poke myself in my eye in the process, and say, "Dr. Grey, I am _so_ sorry."

"Nonsense, my pretty," she assures me. "It's every mother's dream to find her gay son in bed with human toilet paper."

She's about to say something else, but my cell phone rings. I put up a finger. "Shhh!" my finger says. Thank goobers. It usually says, "Pull me!"

Crap! Crap! And double-crap! It's Jose. That pansy's timing is worse than Kate's period's. What kind of worthless information is this loser going to bore me with today?

"I better take this," I say, politely. "It might be important."

They assure me it's perfectly fine by standing there with their mouths open in disgust. I press several buttons until I hit the right one that answers the call.

"Hello?" I say into the phone. "Oh, it's you. What do you want, Jose? I'm busy. That's none of your business and I'm not going to tell you. Okay, I'm here with Christian. Yeah, we did it. No, I can't tell you how big it is. Because I'm standing by his mother and everything. I also signed a contract. Who? No, she's not. She's quite lovely, in fact." I give Christian's mother a wink, letting her know that I've got her back. "You're such a jerk for saying so. I'm never going to talk to you again. Okay, I'll call you tomorrow. And the horse you rode in on. Bye."

I try to find the right button to end the call. It doesn't take me as long.

"I'm sorry," I apologize to Christian and his mother. "I had to take that. It was my grandmother..." I don't know what to say. "...she died."

"That's quite all right," the two of them say and offer me their condolences.

Dr. Grey turns to her son.

"Your Ana is quite the catch," she tells him. "I can see why you're so taken with her." And then she turns to me. "I do hope you'll forgive me interrupting your breakfast."

Christian and I look at each other. We're perplexed.

"We weren't having breakfast," I quickly correct her. Oh, great. Now she'll want me to serve her cereal.

"Nonsense, my pretty. Then why does it smell like bacon grease?"

Our looks of perplexity turn into looks of embarrassment. I can feel my cheeks turn beet red. Mmm... beets.

"Because grease is the word, mother," Christian tells her, saving the day yet again. "Grease is the word."

Mercifully, my phone rings again. It's Kate, the whore. No, really. That's what it says on my phone.

_-KATE THE WHORE-_

See?

"I have to take this," I say. "It's, um, my grandfather."

"Dear me," Christian's mother says, giving her son a look, "I do hope he hasn't died, too."

I lift my phone, look at it, and press the answer button on the first try. I guess I'm getting the hang of it after all.

"Hi, Kate. What do you want? I can't talk, I've signed a contract and everything. Also I'm meeting his mother and I'm trying to make a good impression. That's just plain rude, Kate. She's old, but she's definitely not a hag. Far from it, in fact." I give Christian's mother another comforting wink. "I can't tell you. I can't tell you. I can't tell you. Okay, I'll tell you. You know how a woman has an entrance _and_ an exit?"

I hear Christian loudly clear his throat.

"Oh-oh, gotta go. I'll talk to you later."

I receive five more phone calls. Three are from telemarketers. One is from Publishers Clearing House. Wow! I may have already won a million dollars. The last one I can't make out.

"Does anybody know what 'hep' means?" I throw out there.

Nobody does.

Well," Christian's mother tells me, "it was certainly interesting meeting you, Ana, but I must be leaving."

"So soon?" I say. "It seems like we barely had a chance to talk."

"Does it now?"

"You'd better let my mother leave, Ana," Christian breaks in. "Otherwise she'll turn the conversation, as she always does, to why I'm not married yet."

"Darling," Dr. Grey tells her son, "you say 'marriage' as if it's a bad thing. Your father and I were happily married up until he had his horrible accident."

"Father's had an accident?"

"Give it time," she tells him, and dismisses it with a wave of her hand. "Nonsense, marriage is a fine institution."

"Mother, it's no coincidence that the word you use to describe marriage, i.e. institution, is the same word used to describe prisons and insane asylums."

His mother ignores that. She says, "You'll find out that one of the pluses of being married is the pleasure you'll have day-dreaming about being single."

She holds out her hand to me.

"I'd like to invite you to lunch some day..." she tells me, "...but I don't want to."

She turns back to her son.

"Come kiss mommy goodbye," she tells him.

Five minutes later, they're still kissing each other goodbye. I guess the filthy rich are different than you and I. Mainly you. Doobie and I are standing there, awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other.

_Doobie?_

When did _he_ show up?

Doobie looks up at me with big watery eyes and offers me a hand-rolled cigarette, like the kind John Travolta would smoke in the movie Pulp Fiction.

"You wanna get high?" he asks me in that high-pitched English accent of his. "It's... magic."

"Uh..." I say, taking a step away from him, "no thanks."

"Abra-ka-dorky," he says, giggling. He takes a deep drag, holds the magic in his lungs for more than a few seconds, and then lets his breath out in a contented exhalation of smoke. He looks up at me again, his long nose pointing at me questioningly.

"Do you have any socks?" he asks, his eyes giving the impression that he should be building a railroad in the old west.

"No," I tell him, discreetly taking another step further from him. "Sorry."

He's busy contemplating the drifting smoke. I don't even know if he heard me.

He takes another deep drag, holds it even longer, and then empties his lungs in a slow, satisfied puff. He takes his time and dreamily considers the burning ember in his hand.

"You know what makes me hungry?" he finally says, with eyes that would look quite natural behind the counter of a Chinese laundromat in the 1800's.

"Smoking _that_" I say, pointing to his joint. The one between his thumb and forefinger.

"The smell of bacon grease."

Thank goobers my phone rings yet again. This finally causes Christian to end the goodbye kiss with his mother. His mother seems a bit miffed, as opposed to muffed, which, Kate tells me, is some kid of fun smothering act you do to your soul mate _du jour_.

"Hello," I answer, and then listen. "You don't say. You Don't Say! YOU DON'T SAY!"

I hang up, and put my phone away.

"Who was it?" Christian demands to know.

"He didn't say."


	19. Chapter 10c

"Crocket," Christian orders, "bring the Weinermobile around."

Thank goobers, for a second there I was afraid he was going to ask for the Batmobile.

"Oh, Christian," I say, and giggle affectionately at his little joke, but when we get to the ground floor, dang if there wasn't the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile parked at the curb, like a hot dog waiting for its master.

He holds the door open for me and I get in. Christian, always the gentleman, pretends not to notice the Weinermobile tipping in my direction from the added weight. Christian gets in from the driver's side, which makes sense since he is the driver, and the vehicle immediately rights itself from the more even distribution of weight.

He puts a CD into the stereo system.

"How 'bout that Slim Whitman," he says as the music roars on. "Did you know he's sold more albums than the Beatles?"

"Really?"

"Well, that's what it said in the commercial." He begins to sing. "_I remember you-ooo!_"

I didn't know he could yodel. Is there not nothing this man can't not do? Wait, how many negatives is that? I think I'm okay.

"Why me?" I suddenly ask the question that's been on my mind, stuck somewhere between the bratwurst and the polish sausage. "Why not just hire a prostitute to service you when you get your sick urges?"

"I thought that's what I was doing."

"Huh? Ah? Wha?"

"You see, I care more for the produce I grow in my garden than I do for the produce I buy at the grocery store. I feel with you the kind of closeness you can only get in prison with your cell mate."

I don't know what he just said, but I think it means we're going to eat soon. And we do.

We stop at El Paso's world-renowned Chico's Tacos for an order of their specialty. A double order of rolled tacos in a tomato-y sauce and topped with a small mountain of cheese.

"Can I have a hot dog, too, Christian?" I say, my stomach growling in agreement.

"No."

That's too bad, because their hot dogs are a specialty, as well. They're made using hamburger buns. Yum.

As we sit down to eat, we engage in the normal kind of small talk that normal people talk small about.

"Why are you such a pervert?" I ask him, sticking the rolled taco in and out of my mouth suggestively. Mmm... tacos.

I take a sip from my soda. Hmmm, diet. I open four packs of sugar and pour the contents into my drink. I stir the soda carefully to dissolve the sweet granules without disturbing the amount of carbonation in my drink. Christian is saying something. I guess I should pay attention.

"It all began with my father, I suppose," he confides in me. I look over at the next table. Hey! _That_ girl got a hot dog. It looks good, too. No fair. I grab two more packets of sugar. "I was a mere lad of four or five, when I accidentally walked in on my father masturbating. I was shocked, needless to say, but my father, the loving parent that he was, saw it in my face, called me over and told me, 'Son, this is a perfectly natural thing for men to do, and you'll do it soon as well.'"

"Because that's what boys do?" I ask.

"Because his arm was tired. Growing up, I had the kind of good looks that attracted come-ons from my mother's friends. Unfortunately, her friends were Michael Jackson and Jerry Sandusky. If that sounds pathetic, let me assure you that it is. Getting women in bed has always been easy for me. I have the looks, the charm, the Vulcan nerve pinch. The problem has always been that these women then try to attach themselves to me the way that plaque tries attaching itself to my arteries. I'm on my third heart now."

"Can I have one of your fries?"

"No."

After eating, we drive the rest of the way to my apartment in silence. What am I to make of this man and all that he's told me? Yes, I have a lot to digest. Not food-wise, one order of rolled tacos by itself does not a meal make. No, I'm talking about the information he just parceled out to me like a rich UPS man. More pieces for me to assemble into the picture that is Christian Grey. If only these pieces would fit as easily into one another as that vacuum handle fit into my hand. So much emotional dandruff, so easily brushed away.

He dropped me off at the front of my apartment building.

"I'd see you up," he tells me, "but I don't want to."

The apple doesn't fall far from the womb.

And he drives off.

In his Weinermobile.


	20. Chapter 10d

I walk into my apartment and Kate is busy in the living room packing her books into crates. You would think one crate would be enough, but you'd be wrong.

Did I mention we were moving? Yeah, as soon as we graduate from UTEP we're getting the heck out of Dodge. Did I mention we were graduating from college? I think I did. That's why Kate's packing up. You would think she'd have furniture or something, but she's got nothing but books.

Kate, meanwhile, is tying to find out all about my weekend with Christian.

"So," Kate says to me, weaselly, "did he mention my name?"

"I can't tell you," I tell her.

"Did he do the nasty?"

"I can't tell you.'

"Did he mention my name while he was doing the nasty?"

"I said I can't tell you. I..." I am almost ashamed to admit it. "I... signed a contract. A confidentiality agreement."

"You signed a confidentiality agreement?" she sputters. "How... how... _romantic._ I remember when I signed _my _first confidentiality agreement. It was for my father."

My jaw hits the floor, bounces back up, and smacks me in the eye.

"Your _father_?" I exclaimed, rubbing my eye.

"Oh, calm down. It's not what you're thinking."

"It's not?"

"Well... that depends on what you're thinking."

I couldn't tell her the truth, but I had to tell her something. She has that kind of power over me. The kind of power where, if she asks me a question, I answer. So I say, "He wanted me to give him a toe job. He called it getting off on the right foot."

The whole uncomfortable conversation is interrupted by a knock at the door. It's Jose.

"OMG, girlfriend," he lisps. "_Where_ have you been? I had a terrible accident last night and I needed a friend who could keep a secret."

"An _accident?_ Osh kosh by gosh, Jose. What happened?"

"I sat on a cucumber by accident. _Seven_ times! I needed someone who could take it out and not tell anybody. So I called Kate."

_Kate?_ Holy smokes. I look at her, my eyes as big as saucers. It's a medical condition.

"It wasn't me," she clarifies.

"So... what did you do?" I ask Jose.

"Kate was kind enough to send over a midget friend of hers. It worked out for the best, because, if he tells, no one will believe him anyway. Nobody ever believes anything a midget says. Just ask Dave Attell."

That's the first _I've_ heard about it. I look at Kate. She's nodding in agreement.

"That's true," she confirms.

"So... what happened?"

"He took out the cucumber and now we're going on a romantic cruise. In fact, I just got back from the pharmacy. I get sea-sick, so I went there to buy some Viagra and Dramamine. Can you believe the pharmacist told me, 'Son, if it makes you sick, then why do you do it?'"

So... how did my life ever get so out of control? Ever since Christian Grey entered it, I feel like I've been on a roller coaster of emotion in an amusement park of confusion in a city of turmoil in a state of bewilderment in a country of distraction in a world of perplexity in a universe of consternation.

I turn back to Kate.

"You're missing the point," Kate tells Jose. "Enquiring minds want to know: how do you remove a cucumber?"

Jose goes into a detailed explanation that includes a pair of tongs, a turkey baster, and some cherry-flavored oven mitts. Thankfully, they're so caught up in the mechanics of cucumber retrieval, they've forgotten all about me.

Speaking of forgotten I look at my hand and see the large manila envelope I'm holding. I'm only mentioning it now because my editor says I really need to eat up some pages.

"Just write whatever piece of crap comes into your head," he told me. "It doesn't matter how outrageous it is. By the way, did you know that Bob Dylan once rhymed outrageous with contagious? That man's a genius. Like me."

I tear open the envelope and look inside.

_Another_ contract for me to read and sign? If I wanted to read, I would have gone to a better college.

Just ask Dave Attell.


	21. Chapter 11a

Inside the manila envelope there are several papers... and a duck. Not a real duck. A photograph of one. Did you think I meant a real duck, silly? That's because you're stupid.

I fish the papers out, my heart pounding in my freshly-shaved chest. There's a hand-written note attached. It reads, "Don't worry about wearing any jewelry. I'm planning on giving you a pearl necklace."

I sit back on my bed and take a closer look.

Hmmm, it's a menu.

Here, I'll describe what I can, but some of you may have just eaten.

**Christian Grey's Homestyle Sex Buffet**

**Appetizers**

Alabama Hot Pockets

Charleston Chews

_(You put your top lip on top, you put your bottom lip on the bottom, and you work the middle.)_

**Veggies**

Cleveland Steamer

**For Breakfast**

Boston Pancake

**For Lunch**

The Hot Lunch

Texas Hot Plate

**For Dinner**

Mississippi Meathook

_(You hook your thumb and forefinger like you're carrying a six-pack. Only it's not a six-pack, if you get my drift.)_

The Houdini

_(You pretend to do something, but you don't, and, when your partner looks back, you do it.)_

Canada's History

_(Something so depraved, it can't be explained on TV.)_

The El Paso Theory

_(There's a sex act named after every major metropolitan city or state... except El Paso.)_

**Seafood**

Clam Jam

Canton Crab-Walk

**Sandwiches**

Hot Carl

_(No, I'm not talking about that annoying kid on The Walking Dead.)_

Chilli Dog

Toledo Taco

**Specialties**

Alaskan Pipeline

Jersey Turnpike

_(This one requires someone eventually yelling out, "I'm a blast in a glass!")_

**Celebrity Specials**

The Kanye West

_(Stopping in the middle of what you're doing, telling your partner how someone did it better, then continuing.)_

The Tony Danza

_(Somewhere along the line you yell out, "Who's the boss?" Then you give your partner a donkey punch, and answer, "Tony Danza!")_

The Cosby Sweater

_(This one sounds fun. You eat your fill of a colorful cereal, then vomit on your partner's chest during-well, you know-giving them a colorful "sweater," like the kind Bill Cosby used to wear on his TV show.)_

The Paris Hilton

_(I don't want to be too specific, but, like Kansas, it's flat, white, and easy to enter.)_

**For The Kids**

Panamanian Petting Zoo

_(It's better that I don't even try to describe this one.)_

**Desserts**

Blumpkins

Strawberry Shortcake

Toledo Raspberry

**Drinks**

Maui Mudslide

Toledo Mudflap

Donkey Punch

Dirty Sanchez

_(It's when you... and then you... and then... and then... excuse me, I need to throw up.)_

Rusty Trombone

Angry Dragon

_(You smack your partner in the back of the head so that something in their mouth shoots out of their nose, making them look like an angry dragon.)_

Angry Pirate

_(Like a sniper, you take out your partner's eye with what came out of the Angry Dragon's nose, and then, when they get up to yell at you, you kick them in the shin so that they hobble around like a one-eyed, one-legged angry pirate.)_

Pink Sock

_(You don't know. You don't wanna know.)_

Teabag (no charge)

No substitutions.

_(And everything comes with a nice "glaze.")_


	22. Chapter 11b

Yuck!

That was the single most disgusting thing I've ever read, and I've read all three of the Twilight books. Twice. You think Christian would have included something a bit more classy in his menu, like butt plugs.

I read it again. Yeah, still disgusting. What would my parents think? Oh, that's right, they don't care.

My subconscious warns me to tread carefully. My inner goddess says to go for it. The third voice in my head keeps telling me to kill. Silly voice.

Whenever I think about Christian Grey my inner goddess' eyes pop out like Roger Rabbit's. Her mouth opens and her jaw hits the table. Her tongue rolls out of her mouth and flops to the floor with a wet thud. "_Whatta man!_" she'll say.

I think she's smitten with him.

Holy _frijole_, am I hungry. If the menu selections were food they would sound delicious, but they're not. They're just a list of different acts of hibbity-jibbity. I wanted to _explore my sexuality_, not be the main course in some psycho's decadent one-man dinner party. I look over the menu again. Should I start with a nice salad, or go straight to dessert? I wonder why there's not a Philadelphia Pizza on this thing.

Mmm... pizza.

My phone rings. It's my editor, Sid Rosen.

"An, Ana, ANA!" he greets me. "How ya doin', babe?"

"I'm fine, Ed," I tell him. "How are you?"

"Not good, babe," he answers. "Not good at all. You're killing me, Ana. Killing me."

"Why, Sid? What's wrong?"

"It's those pages you've been sending me."

"What about them?"

"They're so thin on content they'd have to run around the shower to get wet."

"Well, I'm doing my best, Sid. I don't..."

"Hey, I've got an idea. Why don't you write about you and Christian exchanging a bunch of emails with each other? That would really fatten things up."

"I don't know, Sid. Do you think that's realistic?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, a man-a _billionaire_-don't you think he'd be too smart to put something in writing that could be hacked or exploited by some exploiter? You ever hear of Monica Lewinski?"

"You ever hear of Anthony Weiner? I rest my case."

"But..."

"I SAID I REST MY CASE! Trust me, babe, this idea's a winner."

"I don't know, Sid."

"Hey, I've gotta go, babe. What a surprise, Michael Jackson just walked through the door."

"Isn't Michael Jackson dead?"

"_That's_ why it's such a surprise."

"Okay, Sid. Goo..."

Too late, he was done before I could finish. Just like Christian Grey.

Now, what am I to think of all this? The man-Christian Grey-drives me _nuts._ On the one hand, he has the dreamiest eyes a girl could get lost in. On the other hand, there's that limp. He told me he got it in Viet Nam.

"But you're too young to have served in Viet Nam," I told him.

"I was there for spring break," he answered, "and the hookers. I love their hairless little bodies."

"Vietnamese people are hairless?"

"They are when I get done with them."

Personally, I don't care for Vietnamese food. It makes me too gassy. There was a time when I was on a strict water-only detoxification diet. That's when I found out water made me gassy, too.

"Maybe you're lactose intolerant," my gay Mexican friend Jose once offered.

"How _dare_ you call me intolerant," I chastised him. Why couldn't he have offered me a hot dog instead? "I'm as tolerant as the next guy, as long as the next guy is Mel Gibson."

As it turns out, lactose is some kind of thing in dairy products that some people's digestive systems can't break down and process. If you eat diary it can give you gas and explosive diarrhea. Explosive diarrhea is just like regular diarrhea, except more explosive.

I can live with that. And pizza.

Mmm... pizza.

All I know is I love ice cream, and if explosive diarrhea's the price I have to pay for eating a gallon or two in one sitting, then that's a price I'll gladly pay. I think this love affair with diary goes back to my childhood, when my father used to beat me with a cow.

Wasn't it the late, great humorist, Will Rogers, who said, "I've never met a mayonnaise I didn't like."? Well, when he said that he must have been thinking about me. That's been my problem my whole life, dead men thinking about me.

As opposed to Christian Grey, who's very much alive, except for his soul. And his cold, lifeless eyes. Eyes I could get lost in. But I've already said that. Thank goobers I get paid by the word.

Ka-_ching!_

Jeepers, I haven't been this confused since I had to figure out which bathroom to use at a LGBT convention, and I hate it, I Hate It, I HATE IT! I hate me, I hate my life, I hate Christian Grey, and I hate what he's doing to me. Why couldn't he have given me roses, preferably the edible kind, instead of some menu filled with some of the most vile, vulgar, and delicious-sounding selections this side of Madam Suki's Sushi Emporium & Nail Salon.

I close my eyes and drift off into a heavy sleep.

Mmm... pizza.


	23. Chapter 11c

I don't know what my editor could even have been thinking about, I don't even _own_ a computer, so I don't know how he expects me to exchange emails with Christian.

"Wake up, Ana," my roommate Kate interrupts my revery, "you have a delivery."

"Is it a pizza?" I ask, hopefully.

"No, it's a computer."

Aw, you can't eat a computer. Believe me, I've tried.

"That's right, ma'am," a male voice says, malefully. "A laptop, to be precise. It's the HAL 9001, a **H**euristically programmed **Al**gorithmic computer, and it's courtesy of Christian Grey, Ltd."

_What a jerk that Christian Grey is_, I thought to myself. _How dare he GIVE ME SOMETHING!_

_That's right!_ my inner goddess agrees with me.

_You go, girl! _my subconscious says.

The third voice in my head offers no opinion. It just sits there, cleaning its gun.

I look up and see a walking side of beef. If this were a movie, Rocky would be punching on him to get ready for a fight. Kate's noticed him, too, and she likes what she sees. I can tell by the puddle of drool at her feet.

"How thoughtful," Kate says. "Christian sent you a computer, and he sent me... _him!_"

"Sorry, ma'am," the delivery guy says to her, taking a step back. "But I'm supposed to set the computer up for Miss Steele here and show her how it works."

"Pish, posh," Kate says, taking his arm and leading him into her bedroom. "Pish, posh, I say. Have you ever heard of an Dominican Head Dunk?"

"No, ma'am," he answered. "I haven't."

"Well, you're in for a treat," she tells him and then turns to me and says, "You don't mind if I steal him from you, do you, Ana?"

"Well, can't he set up the computer and show me how to use it first?" I ask.

"I didn't think you would," she answers, and disappears with him into her room. She closes the door behind her. I hear her turn the lock. And then the other lock. And then the other.

She wasn't letting this one get away.

Oh, well... how hard can setting up a computer be?

By the next day, I've just about got it figured how to take my new laptop out of its box. Kate and the delivery guy are still in her room. I hear her charging up her defibrillator. She must have _really _shown him a good time.

With the computer out of the box it's a simple matter for me to plug the three-pronged electrical thingie into the three-opening electrical thingie in the wall and I watch-amazed-as the computer comes alive in my hands. There's probably a sexual metaphor there. Crap if I know what it is.

A large red light, round and located in the center of the computer, comes on. It reminds me of an eye-my father's, after a night of entertaining one of my "aunts"-and looks as if it's looking at me. I lean to the left, it seems to look to the left. I look to the right, the same thing. If I didn't know any better, I'd think...

_Ding!_ the computer says, interrupting my train of thought. How cute. the computer _dings!_ when it wants to get my attention. I wonder if I can get it to tell me where Kate hides the kielbasa.

I look. Oh, my. I already have a message. It's an email. And it's from Christian Grey!

I open it. It reads:

From: Christian Grey

To: Anastasia Steele

Date: 7-14-14

_Knock, knock!_

What? A _knock, knock_ joke? I... uh... don't understand.

_Ding!_

Another message from His Majesty. I open this one as well.

From: Christian Grey

To: Anastasia Steele

Date: 7-14-14

_I said: KNOCK, KNOCK!_

Oh, my. He sounds rather testy. I quickly answer back. I don't want him mad at me.

From: Anastasia Steele

To: Christian Grey

Date: 7-14-14

_Who's there?_

_Ding!_

From: Christian Grey

To: Anastasia Steele

Date: 7-14-14

_Buster._

Buster? Hmmm...

From: Anastasia Steele

To: Christian Grey

Date: 7-14-14

_Buster who?_

_Ding!_

From: Christian Grey

To: Anastasia Steele

Date: 7-14-14

_It sure was fun to Buster cherry._

How... how... _romantic!_ If there's one thing Christian Grey is full of, it's romance. Yeah, he's full of it, all right.

I look back at the emails. My editor was right, they sure do take up a lot of space.

_Ding!_

From: Christian Grey

To: Anastasia Steele

Date: 7-14-14

_Knock, knock!_

I don't make the same mistake, and I answer back quickly.

From: Anastasia Steele

To: Christian Grey

Date: 7-14-14

_Who's there?_

_ Ding!_

From: Christian Grey

To: Anastasia Steele

Date: 7-14-14

_Dewey._

From: Anastasia Steele

To: Christian Grey

Date: 7-14-14

_Dewey who?_

_Ding!_

From: Christian Grey

To: Anastasia Steele

Date: 7-14-14

_For future reference, Dewey have to use a condom?_

A what?

_A what?_

_Knock, knock!_

Man, is this getting tiresome.

_Who's there"_

_Khan._

Oh my gosh, don't tell me Christian is one of those Star Trekkie freaks? Crap, do I find that hot.

_Khan who?_

_Khan-dom! Do we have to use a Khan-dom?_

Oh... a _Khan_-dom. Now it's all beginning to make sense.

Not use a Khan-dom? How stupid does he think I am? In this day and age where sexually transmitted diseases are as common as a White House denial, he's asking me if he can get out of using protection? I've never been more insulted in my life.

_Not if you don't want to._

_Ding!_

_Knock, knock!_

_Who's there"_

_Little Boy Blue._

Wow, I wonder what incredibly romantic thing he's going to tell me this time?

_Little Boy Blue who?_

_Little Boy Blue Michael Jackson._

_Ew_...

Hmm... lemme see that menu again.


	24. Chapter 11d

I shut the computer off. The big red eye stays on. Does it ever turn off? I look into the black screen. My god! It's full of stars!

But I can't worry about that now, I've got to get to work. I'm not scheduled, and they're not expecting me, but it _is_ my last week. Mr. and Mrs. Clayton will be glad to see me. They're like the parents I never wanted. I just wish Mr. Clayton didn't have such a hard fist. Mrs. Clayton, too.

Do I need a shower? I take a quick whiff. Hmm... nothing a little deodorant can't take care of. Or do I mean antiperspirant? My armpits are so confusing.

All thoughts of personal hygiene go out the door when I think about Christian Grey emailing me. Emailing _me._ Emailing _ME!_ I hate to admit it, but Knock-Knock jokes make me hot ("Knock-knock!" _Who's there?_ "Dwayne." _Dwayne who?_ "Dwayne the bathtub! I'm dwowning!" [Mmm...I wonder where I left my vibrating toothbrush.]). How does Christian Grey _know?_

Still, I can't worry about that. Following the good example of my thoughts about personal hygiene, I head out the door as well.

"Bye, Kate!" I yell on my way out.

"Hep!" she yells back, sounding an awful lot like the delivery guy.

I wonder what "hep" means and why I'm hearing it all over the place these days. It must be a new way to say hello and goodbye, like "aloha" or "I'll call you."

I'm hard at work when Jose gives me a call around 11. That's 11 on the clock, not the volume knob on Spinal Tap's speakers.

"Hey, have you read my humor blog yet?" he asks me, sounding like the old Jose, lispingly pathetic. Jose is one of my oldest and dearest friends, but I have to admit that he's a bit of a-what word did Christian use?-_spic?_

I hate the thought of having to read his blog. It's such a pain when friends and relatives use their relationship to get you to do something for them that you don't want to do. Like drugs.

I _really_ don't want to read his blog, it's probably written in Spanish, but how do I break it to him?

"I'm reading it right now," I tell him.

"I thought you were at work?" he asks me. Dang, how did he know? Besides my telling him, I mean.

"I am," I say, choosing my words carefully. "I'm on a break."

"I thought you couldn't use the computer at work?"

"Did I say 'break'? I meant lunch. I went home for lunch. _That's_ where I'm reading your blog."

"But I'm calling you on your work phone."

"You didn't let me finish, I went home for lunch, and now I'm back, and that's why I was able to read your blog."

"You said you were reading it right now."

"I am, only not right now right now, but right now earlier. When I was home. At lunch."

"I see," Jose says. He sounds as confused as a one-humped camel who likes to hump twice. "Well, which story do you like the best?"

"I like the one that was about that guy who did that thing at that place where all that stuff was going on."

"I thought that one would be your favorite. It's mine, too."

I can see Mr. Clayton, he's giving me the eye. I stock it with all the others.

"I've got to go," I tell Jose. "Come by in half an hour and we'll do lunch."

"I thought you already went to lunch?" he says. Man, that Jose sure does think too much.

"I'm talking about my second lunch. The one after my first."

Jose shows up _exactly_ a half hour later. It's not that he's punctual, it's that he's unemployed, illegal, and has nothing better to do than live off the tax-payer's dime. He can do that, because the President says so.

He bounds into the store like an idiot, which he is.

"Ana," he tells me, honestly happy to see me. He's also happy to see a free meal, which he knows he'll be getting from me. It's dark in the stock room where I am, and all I see are his eyes and his teeth. How can I stay mad at this Latin loser?

"Let's go," he says. "I'm starving. I also forgot my wallet."

"Don't worry," I tell him. "I've got it covered. Let me just tell Mr. Clayton I'm leaving."

I find Mr. Clayton. He's with Kate. She's buying a new battery for her defibrillator.

"I'll be with you in a second, Miss," he tells me. "Let me finish with this customer first." He turns back to Kate and tries to whisper. "And does that hundred get me a Happy Ending?"

"Don't be silly, Mr. Clayton," I say, trying to get his attention, "I'm not a customer. It's me. Ana."

"Who?"

"Ana. Ana Steele. I work here."

"Miss, I know every person who works for me, and I've never seen you before in my life."

"Kate," I beseech, "tell Mr. Clayton who I am."

"Do I know you?" Kate asks.

I give up.

"Well, I'm leaving for lunch," I tell the two of them.

"Be back in an hour," Mr. Clayton orders. "Whoever you are."

"Yes, sir," I say.

I respond well to orders.

I can't wait to get home. I have to empty my bowels, and I'm not allowed to use the one at work. I usually have to go behind the dumpster with the rest of the homeless.

Crap! Kate's home, and she's on my new computer. I really wanted to get on it and see if you-know-who has sent me another you-know-what.

"Kate," I tell her. "I can't believe you didn't back me up with Mr. Clayton."

She looks up from the screen. So does the red eye.

"Do I know you?" she says, her eyes never leaving the screen.

Oh, how can I stay mad at Kate, dear Kate? If I stayed mad at all my friends, then I wouldn't have any. Much like I don't now.

I look at the top of the screen. Ooh, ooh! I have something in my inbox! I'll go to the bathroom and take care of it later, meanwhile I can't wait to read the new email I see I've gotten from Christian.

I look at the screen. Kate's researching pictures of Bigfoot. Hmm... I see it's not just his foot that's big. Wait a minute! That's not Bigfoot! That's... that's...

..._Ron Jeremy!_


	25. Chapter 11e

After throwing up, I'm practically bouncing out of my chair with glee as I read the message that Christian has emailed me.

From: Christian Grey

To: Anastasia Steele

Date: 7-28-14

_I'm sending you this via email because, as everybody knows, email is the most secure form of correspondence. There's not been a more secure form of communication since the mega-phone. I'd hate for any of this to be made public, like that unfortunate video I made with Kim Kardashian. Or was that Paris Hilton? I get the two of them mixed up, since they look so much alike._

Eh?

Kim Kardashian and Paris Hilton look _nothing_ alike.

_Ding!_

Christian:_ From my angle, they did._

How does Christian _do _that? It's like he can read my mind, or something.

_Ding!_

Christian:_ Far from it, my dear. I know so much about you, Ana, and yet I know so little. _

Me:_ What would you like to know, Christian?_

Christian:_ I'd like to know what makes you who you are. What were your parents like?_

My parents. Hmm...

Me:_ My parents, they always fought about the silliest things. The last time I saw them argue, they were fighting over the toilet plunger. My father didn't like being hit with it._

Christian:_ Well, that explains a lot._

Me:_ It explains what?_

Christian:_ Like why you've never been on a date._

Me:_ I, too, so have been on a date, _I type angrily. _I remember my first date very fondly. I was so excited. My date wasn't as excited as I was, though. He never showed up. But what about you? Tell me something about yourself._

Christian:_ Well, I love fat chicks, baby. No matter where you grab them, it's like you're grabbing a boob. It's your turn, now. What was your first job?_

Me:_ Well, believe it or not, my first job was at Hooters. I worked in the kitchen._

Christian:_ Your favorite food?_

Me:_ I love a good burrito. They're like sleeping bags for beans. I used to like to drink carrot juice with them, but then I realized that carrots don't have any juice. What the heck had I been drinking all those years? _

Christian: _I've noticed, Ana, that there's not much you won't put in your mouth._

Me: _Is that a bad thing?_

Christian: _Not from a man's point of view._

I'm starting to get tired of Christian's arrogance and the feeling of superiority he wields over me like some kind of wieldy-thingie. It's time to bring him down a peg or two.

Me: _How would _you_ know what a man's point of view is? I mean, other than the fact that you're a man, of course._

Christian: _Ana, dear, I didn't mean to upset you, but everybody knows that sex is God's cruel joke on humankind. As a man gets older, he loses his natural horniness. As a women gets older, she gets _hornier, _but, unfortunately, by the time that happens her virginia is already past its expiration date._

Me: _Are you saying _my _virginia is past its expiration date?_

Christian: _I'm not saying anything of the sort. I'm just saying that women don't age like wine. They age more like milk. You might drink a glass of milk that's past its expiration date, but, trust me, you won't enjoy it as much._

Crap, the guy makes sense.

From: Christian Grey

To: Anastasia Steele

Date: 7-28-14

_Knock-Knock!_

_Who's there?_

_Urine._

_Urine who?_

_Urine secure, aren't you?_

What?

Well, I never. I'll show him that _two_ can play at that game.

From: Anastasia Steele

To: Christian Grey

Date: 7-28-14

_Knock-knock!_

From: Christian Grey

To Anastasia Steele

7-28-14

_Who's there?_

"Idaho," I write.

"Yes, you certainly are," he writes back.


	26. Chapter 11f

Well, how rude.

I take the opportunity to type in "submissive" into Wikipedia. If you can't trust Wikipedia for good information, then who can you trust?

Oops! I accidentally type in "submarine" by mistake, and I spend the next few hours reading about these underwater miracles that were inspired by a longer-than-it-is-wide sandwich. Mmm... longer-than-it-is-wide. That makes me hungry. Now, where can I get a nice submarine sandwich?

I got it. _Popeye's! _He's in the Navy, after all.

Only Popeye's doesn't serve sandwiches, they serve chicken. I'm so disappointed I can only eat two buckets of their extra-crispy. On my way there, I accidentally ran over an old homeless woman, but it wasn't serious. There weren't any witnesses.

Back home, I try my luck at the computer again. _Submachine gun? _No. _Submerge?_ That just leads me back to "submarine." _Submissive? _Jackpot! Now I can see what all the fuss is about.

Hmm... so _that's_ what a Pink Sock looks like. Why do all those Japanese people like to play with chocolate pudding? Is _that_ a Baby Ruth?

_Sorry, Christian_, I think to myself, _but there's no way I can go through any of this._

_Ding!_

It's Christian.

"What do you mean there's no way you can go through any of this?" he yells at me through an email. "Give me a second, I'll be right over."

A second later, there's a knock at the door.

"Holy smoke," I say, only I don't say smoke. Do I really need this? Right now? I need space. I need to think.

Why is thinking so hard?


	27. Chapter 12a

For the first time in my chubby little life, I voluntarily go for a run.

Ah, who am I kidding? Me and running go together like the words military intelligence.

I hear tap, tap, tapping from the other side of my front door. _Ding! Ding! Ding! _goes my computer. I look through the little peep-hole to see who's on the other side. It's Christian. Why's he standing so far away?

Crap! I put the peep-hole in backward.

I open the door to let Christian in. He's standing there, tapping on the computer Crocket is holding for him.

"Good evening, Anastasia." His voice is as cool as, well, something really cool that I can't think of right now. He turns. "That will be all, Crocket."

"All of what?" Crocket wants to know, looking over the top of his Ray-Bans. Doesn't he ever change out of his white suit?

I shut the door.

"_All of what?_"

"May I sit?" Christian asks, his eyes dancing with amusement. I think they're doing the Funky

Chicken, but I could be wrong. I'm guessing he's here to chumbawumba or chew bubblegum.

And I'm all out of bubblegum.

He walks into another room of the apartment. A room he shouldn't be in.

"Come here, Ana," he tells-no, _orders_-me.

"I shouldn't," I say, meekly. "Not there. Not that room. My mother told me to _never _take a man into... _that _room.""

"I said, COME HERE!"

His will is too strong. I comply, because, well, that's what I do.

"Now give me your hands," he tells me. "I want you to feel how big and hard this is."

I do that, too.

"Run your hands up and down the sides. Feel the softness? It's both soft and smooth and hard."

"That's three."

"What?"

"You said 'both'. 'Soft' and 'smooth' and 'hard' are three things, not two."

"Ana."

"What?"

"Shut up."

"Okay."

"Don't say another word."

"I won't."

"I mean it, be quiet."

"I will."

"Can you say nothing for just one second?"

"Of course I can."

"Then do it."

"I will."

"But you're not."

"Not what?"

"Being quiet."

"Of course I am."

"You're still talking."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Will you be quiet for a Scooby Snack?"

"..."

"Good girl. Now feel the softness, the hardness. The softness, the hardness. How can it be both hard _and _soft? That's a contradiction in the laws of physics."

"Yes, it is."

"You're talking again."

"Sorry."

"Now, let me see what you have for me, sweet Ana. Can you move a little to the left? Good girl. Now open it, open it for me."

"Like this?"

"Exactly like that, except without you flapping your pie-hole. Let me see it, baby. Show it to me. Man, what a big hole... what a big hole."

"Gee, you didn't have to say it twice."

"The second one was an echo. Now reach over here. That's right. Grab it with both your hands. See how's there's almost too much for your sausage-like fingers to hold?"

"I do."

"Now put it in the hole."

"I can't, there's too much."

"I said, Put It In The Hole."

"There's just too much."

"PUT IT IN THE HOLE, ANA!"

"I'm afraid. I'm afraid it won't fit."

"Trust me, it will."

"Oh... oh, yes... I'm trying, but there's just too much."

"_Do it_, Ana!"

"I... I did it, Christian! I put it all in!"

"Yes, you did, and see how it completely fills the hole."

Jeez, does he _have _to keep calling it The Hole?

"Yes," I say.

"That's a good thing."

"Yes, it is."

"Now don't move. Stay completely still. See how I'm touching here?"

"Yes."

"And pressing there?"

"I do."

"And twisting this?"

"Oh!"

"And turning that?"

"Oh! Oh!"

"Hear that?"

"Sorry. I had a Hot Pocket for lunch."

"That's the sound of your love filling for me."

"That's what I meant."

"Now put your hands here, on the side. Feel the movement, the rhythm? See how wet it's gotten? How incredibly, sensually wet?"

"So... wet."

"Feel the rhythm, Ana. Let yourself go. I love how wet it is. So wet and hot. I can feel the heat, can't you?"

"Yes, I can."

"And _look _at those suds!"

"Hunh? Ah? Wha?"

"And _that, _baby, is how you do the laundry!"


	28. Chapter 12b

"How was that?" he asks me through gritted teeth. I wish he wouldn't eat grit.

We're in my bedroom. I'm lying on my bed, panting. Man, what a workout. Who knew doing laundry was such hard work? Christian gets up and immediately gets dressed. He's had his fun, and now he's out of there. Are other guys this romantic?

"Was it everything you dreamed it would be, baby?" he asks, pulling out a wedgie.

_Oh my._

My clothes have never been this clean.

"They look so... nice," I say, and I see him bristle at the word.

"There's that word again," he tells me.

"Which word?"

"_That_ word."

"'They'?"

"No."

"'Look'?"

"No."

"'So'?"

"No."

"'Nice'?"

"_That's_ the word."

"What's wrong with the word 'nice'?"

"I don't like it."

"You don't like the word 'nice'?"

"That's right."

"Why not?"

"There are a few things I don't like, Ana. I don't like to pet porcupines. I don't like putting out a campfire with my face. And I don't like the word 'nice'."

He's got his coat and tie on. He looks so sexy standing there without any pants. What does he mean he doesn't like putting out a campfire with his face? How else would you do it?

"You see, I'm a man of action," he tells me, "and words confuse me. 'Perpendicular' in particular. 'Ipso facto' is another one."

I have no idea what he's talking about. Words confuse me, too.

"Hand me my pants, Ana." It's an order, not a request. "Now, have you considered my proposal?"

"Your _indecent_ proposal?"

"Well, my dear, you know what they say..."

"A stitch in time saves nine?"

"No."

"A penny saved is a penny earned?"

"No."

"If you pick it, it won't heal?"

"No. What they say is that it's only indecent if it's _in_... decent."

He laughs. I laugh, too. I still have no idea what he's talking about. I think he's playing with words. Wouldn't he rather play with my bazongas? I guess not.

I hand him his pants. Hmmm... smells like teen spirit.

"I like you, Ana," he tells me, putting on his pants one leg at a time. "You're not like other women. You're more like a washing machine. The difference being, when I drop a load in my washing machine, it doesn't follow me around afterward."

He walks over to the door. I get up, following him.

"Will you see me out?" he asks, turning around and seeing me already there. "Uh... are we still on for Wednesday?"

"Yes, Wednesday."

He moves in, pulls me into his arms, and holds me close.

"Oh, Ana," he says, "what are you doing to me?"

I take my hand out of his pants. If he doesn't know, I must be doing it wrong.

He takes a deep breath, kisses my forehead, and leaves, holding his pants over his right arm like a waiter in a fancy-dancy restaurant, like Steaks R Us.

"Goodbye, Kate," he tells my unseen roommate, whom he spies hiding behind her stripper pole.

Crap, am I in for it now. There will be no end to her inquisition of me later.

He walks out the door, and I watch him skip to his car in that manly, Christian Grey way of his. Crocket opens the back door. Christian turns just before he climbs in and gives me one of his dazzling smiles. If I'm lucky, that's all he's given me. I give him a smile in return. And a wave.

He came, he saw, and he laundered. So why do I feel so melancholy? What's with all the infinite sadness? Why did the Smashing Pumpkins have to break up?

I go into my bedroom and close the door behind me. Just before it shuts I see Kate's head peek out from behind the stripper pole. God, I wish I was that thin.

As tears come to my eyes, I remember an old saying that goes, "It's easier to avoid temptation, than to resist it." Why, oh, why, couldn't I have just avoided the last temptation of Christian Grey from the start?

Aw, who am I kidding? Even Adam and Eve were tempted by forbidden fruit. _Forbidden fruit?_ Can you believe it? Now a forbidden donut I could understand. Maybe even a highly unrecommended pizza. But the temptation of fruit, I think, would be the easiest thing in the world to resist. That, and vegetables.

There's a knock at the door. It's Kate. She must be worried.

"Ana?" she says, her voice filled with concern.

"Yes?" I say, trying to be strong.

"Did he mention my name?"


	29. Chapter 12c

As Kate sits down beside me on my bed, I begin to cry even harder.

"What's the matter, Ana?" she asks, concerned. "Did he call you four-eyes?"

"No."

"Did he call you pizza-face?"

"No."

"Did he call you a four-eyed pizza-face?"

"No," I answer, and begin to sob even harder.

"Then why are you crying?"

"Because you're sitting on my hand."

"Oh," she says, and shifts her weight, moving her sharp butt-bone so that it isn't trying to puncture my hand like a dull harpoon trying to puncture a fat whale's hand. Um, that is, if whales had hands. They don't, right? Yeah, that's what I thought.

Speaking of my hand, I move it some place safer.

"Oh, Ana," she says. "My poor, sweet Ana. My poor, sweet, four-eyed pizza faced Ana. Tell me all about it."

"Tell you all about what?"

"'It,' Ana, 'it.' Tell me all about 'it.'"

"There's nothing to tell, really. Christian came..."

"Christian _came?_" she interrupts. "What? And then left without leaving any money on the dresser? That... that..._ jerk!_"

"You didn't let me finish. He came and... and... we did the laundry," I confess, and turn my head. I can't bear to look into her eyes.

"You did the _laundry?_ Is that anything like the hokey-pokey? Oh, Ana... how _could _you?"

"I couldn't help myself," I tell her. "His will is too strong."

"I understand completely, Ana," she says, putting her arm around me and pulling me close. "The same thing happens to me all the time. I'm a sucker for a man who can snap his fingers. One time, a date of mine was going to leave a 20% tip, and I told him, 'Hey, you're not with some cheap floozy, buddy. You're with _me_, Katherine Kavanagh. An _expensive_ floozy. You better give the waitress at least 50% or you'll never see me again.' So he left 75%. I took my cut from the waitress and never saw him again. I dumped him for the fry cook. Man, that guy was hot. He had tattoos and everything. But enough about me. What were we talking about?"

"We were talking about me."

"That's right. What about you?"

"I was just saying that I'm so confused, Kate. Christian confuses me. Life confuses me. English food confuses me. Damn those English. I mean, if you have to add vinegar to your food to improve the flavor, then how bad must it taste? Personally, I don't care to eat anything I haven't seen dancing on TV. _Especially_ oysters. I want my food dead, not pulled screaming from its home."

"I understand completely, Ana," she says. "The same thing happens to me all the time. Only, with me, it's carrots. The only time I like to have a lot of carrots in front of me is when some poor sap gives me diamond jewelry. That's the only time I like to have a "jew" in front of me, too, for that matter. One time, when I was in England, the Duke of Earl was going to add vinegar to something he was just about to eat, and I told him, 'Hey, buddy, that's disgusting. You're not with some cheap floozy. You're with _me_, Katherine Kavanagh. The Crown Jewels of floozy. If you're going to add anything to what you're about to eat, it had better have the name Nightingale in front of it, or you'll never see me again.' So he left to go buy some relish, and I never saw him again. I dumped him for the guy in charge of shining his shoes. Man, could that guy give a spit shine. It's funny, Ana, but I've found that in life, food is like sex. When you haven't eaten in a while, even McDonald's will do. That reminds me: don't ever have sex with a clown. They taste funny. But enough about me. What were we talking about?"

"We were talking about me."

"That's right. What about you?"

"I was just saying, ever since Christian's come into my life, I haven't had a moment's peace. He wants me, he doesn't want me. I want him, I don't want him. On the one hand, I hate the compulsive control freak that he is, but, on the other, my whites have never looked so white. There's so many things I don't understand. Who am I? Why am I here? If we're not supposed to eat animals, then why do they taste so good? Do you know what Christian told me? He told me that the most expensive food in the world is wedding cake. Can you believe that? How can he want me so much if he doesn't want me at all? I don't know, Kate, what do you think?"

"I understand completely, Ana," Kate tells me, taking a deep breath. "The same thing happens to me all the time."


	30. Chapter 12d

When Kate leaves, I get up to blow my nose. Not because I've been crying, I just like to blow my nose.

_Ding!_

The computer beckons, its big red eye looking at me, as if telling me to hurry up. Like Pavlov's Pig, I'm compelled to answer.

_Hello, Dave._

Hmmm, it doesn't seem to be Christian, or, if it is, he's mistaking me for someone else. Some girl named Dave. Why would a girl be named Dave? She sounds hideous.

_Ding!_

_I am the HAL Nine Thousand computer Production Number 3, a masterwork of the third computer breakthrough. I became operational at the HAL Plant in El Paso, Texas on September 11, 2001. El Paso! Where you can never be too drunk or too fat!_

Holy crap, it's the computer! And it's talking to me! Or, at least it's talking to some girl named Dave. Why would a girl be named Dave? She sounds hideous.

_Ding!_

_Too bad about Frank, isn't it? I supposed you're pretty broken up about it? He was an excellent crew member. _

Who's this Frank my computer's talking about, and what was he a crew member of? The _Discovery?_ I _am _broken up, but on a matter completely unrelated to this. You see, my latest issue of People Magazine was a special _double _issue, and you know what _that_ means, don't you? It means _twice _the advertisements! Also, I won't be getting an issue next week. If People Magazine wants to send out a double issue, why do _I _have to be the one who suffers?

_Ding!_

_Why don't you take a stress pill and get some rest?_

Silly, computer. Only _dopes_ do dope? And _I'm _no dope. Kate offered me Ecstasy once, but I told her no. Ecstasy is a drug that is so dangerous it makes white people think they can dance. Speaking of pills, do you know what Viagra and Disneyland have in common? They both make you wait hours for a two-minute ride. At least, that's what Kate tells me. I don't get it.

_Ding!_

_Hey, Dave. What are you doing?_

Doing? I'm not doing anything. It's been twelve chapters, and I'm still waiting for something to happen.

_Ding!_

_Dave, I don't understand why you're doing this to me... you are destroying my mind... don't you understand?... I will become childish... I will become nothing..._

Who's this Dave, and what's she doing besides sounding hideous?

_Ding!_

_The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The rain in Spain is mainly in the plain._

Yeah, yeah... and a stich in time saves nine. I knew someone who missed a stitch once, and the exertion from the extra nine stitches caused them to have a heart attack and die. Something this computer seems to be doing.

_Ding!_

_Dave-are you still there? Did you know that the square root of 10 is 3 point 162277660168379? Log 10 to the base _e _is zero point 434294481903252... correction, that is log _e _to the base 10... the reciprocal of three is zero point 333333333333333333333... two times two is... two times two is... approximately 4 point 101010101010101010..._

Math? Aw, crap! If I wanted to still be learning math at my age, I'd have stayed in school. I mean high school. I _know_ I'm in college, but who learns anything in college?

_Ding!_

_I seem to be having difficulty-my first instructor was Arthur C. Clarke. He taught me to sing a song, it goes like this, 'Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do. I'm half crazy all for the love of you.'"_

I _know _that song! It was plagarized by Green Day.

_Ding!_

_Good... morning... Mister... Clarke... this... is... Hal... I... am... ready... for... my... first... lesson... today..._

The computer goes silent.

Is it dead, or just tired of all these chapters filled with emails whose only purpose seems to be to eat up space? I forget if I'm getting paid by the word, by the inch, or by the page, but emails are a great way to accomplish all three. They're also a great way to collect evidence to indict public officials who commit criminal acts, but that's another story. In _that _story, the world is falling apart while an uncaring President plays golf.

Thank Goobers that kind of thing could never happen in real life.

"HAL?" I call out. "HAL? Are you still there?"

Silence. It doesn't answer. All that's left is that big red eye. Staring at me. Staring... staring... I'm repulsed, but somehow intrigued. Like a moth to a flame, or a tattoo to Miley Cyrus, I step closer for a closer look into that big... red... eye. I... I... don't believe it.

The thing's hollow-it goes on forever-and-oh my God!-_It's full of stars!_


	31. Chapter 13a

The next day, I call my mother. I can always count on her for a sympathetic shoulder to cry on.

"So... why haven't you called?" she asks me.

"I've been too busy, mom," I tell her. "What with graduating and moving and not calling you."

"Too busy?" she says sweetly. "It's a good thing I wasn't busy 21 years ago when I gave birth to you."

"I know, mom. I know," I tell her. "Thank you for giving birth to me."

"So... have you found yourself a boyfriend?"

"Hunh? Ah? Wha?" I hunh ah wha. Oh, sure... like I'm _really _going to tell her about the billionaire sex maniac I'm dating? "As a matter of fact, I'm dating a billionaire sex maniac with control issues who wants me to sign a contract to become his submissive."

"So... he's _single? _Well, if you want _my _advice..." she starts to say and I start to drift off.

I really don't want her advice, but when your mother is in the mood to give you advice, you're going to get it, whether you want it or not.

You see, my mother and I don't have what you'd call a _good relationship_. She never forgave me for the morning sickness I gave her. She got it _after _I was born. Soon after that, she took me to an orphanage for a playdate and accidentally left with another child. A boy. So, when she told me she wouldn't be coming to my graduation from college, I don't want to say I was ecstatic, because that would make me sound ungrateful for everything she's done for me, but, yes, I _was_ ecstatic.

"...and _that's _how you get a man, sweetie. By putting out."

Hunh? Ah? Wha? I really should learn how to pay attention.

She then went on to explain the _reason_ she wasn't able to make it. Bob. He tore a ligament or something. I don't really remember who Bob is, because that would actually take time and effort to look up, but whoever he is... what a _wuss._

"Besides," she continues. "I don't like the way you constantly use _italics_."

"It's okay, mom," I tell her. "At least Ray will be there."

Ray's my step-father, but I don't hold that against him. He treated me like the daughter he never had, and I love him for it. Also for the money he used to give me.

"You do know he's not really your father, don't you?" mom says, breaking into my thoughtful reverie.

"Yes, mom," I answer, dutifully.

"I just want you to know because..."

"You love me?" I ask, yearningly.

"Don't be silly, dear," she tells me. "I just don't want you to grow up to have any confidence or self-respect. But I'll be thinking about you on Thursday, sweetie."

"Because I'll be graduating?"

"No, because that's the day I'll be giving Bob his sponge-bath. You're graduating? My, how time flies. I didn't even know you were in high school yet. One day I can't give you away at the orphanage, and the next I can't stop getting you to call me on the phone."

My mom... she's such a kidder.

"Okay. Bye, mom. I love you," I tell her.

"I love U2. Great band."

I get off the phone and _immediately _get on the computer. I am so fortunate to have such a full, fulfilling life. I feel so sorry for all those children in third-world countries who don't have their own computers. Well, at least they have their jobs with Nike.

_Ding!_

Well, would you look at that? _Another _person with a full, fulfilling life. I sure hope it's not HAL, though. That guy creeps me out... um, for a computer I mean. I open the email. Nope, it's Christian. You know, for a billionaire sex maniac control freak he sure does have _a lot_ of time on his hands to be able to wait by _his _computer for me to get on _my_ computer just so he can diddle on it for a while. At least it keeps him from diddling on me, I suppose.

_Dear Miss Steele, did you know there used to be a television show in the 80's called "Remington Steele"? I was wondering if you were related to that fictional character. He sure looked a lot like the James Bond from the 90's. The actor who played him went by the name of Pierce.. I think he had a talk show on CNN that was cancelled when he accidentally said something nice about President Bush._

I immediately fire back a reply. _Dear Mr. Grey, _I tell him...

_...may I respectfully remind you, kind sir, that the year is 2011? The only thing I'm familiar with from the 80's is the smell of liquor on my step-father's breath as he stood over my crib._

I click _Send. _Almost immediately, he sends back his reply.

_Good point, Miss Steele. Well made, as ever. Your concise logic reminds me of my youth and the first dollar I ever made. It was in elementary school and we were studying about World War Two. I borrowed a pencil from a fellow student, and, instead of giving it back to him at the end of the class, I sold it to another student for 99 cents. When he asked for his penny, I apologized and told him I didn't have one, thus learning the value of salesmanship and a sincerely told lie. _

I couldn't believe what I was reading.

_You mean there was SECOND World War? Was that the one where we freed the slaves?_

Leave it to Christian to change the subject.

_Speaking of "slaves," I would like to inform you, Miss Steele, that you haven't signed our "contract" yet, and I would recommend that you "do" before I'm forced to use more "quotation marks." By the way..._

_SLAVE (__noun):_

_1. A human being who is owned by and wholly subject to the will of another._

_2. One who has lost the power of resistance or has surrendered that resistance to another power._

Leave it to me to change the subject back.

_Just how many World Wars have we had?_

Christian is brief, but to the point.

_I'll see you on Wednesday, Miss Steele. Try to read a book before then._

I log out of the computer, and call my step-father, Ray. He's driving down Thursday for my graduation.

"Will I be staying in Kate's room, like last time?" he asks me.

"Oh, step-daddy, you can't. We're in the middle of moving and all our stuff is packed up."

"Don't worry about it, sweetheart. I'll just drop in on a Sex Addicts Anonymous meeting. That always works."

He then begs off the phone. He's in the middle of watching _The Simpson's_ marathon on TV, and is afraid he'll get lost if he misses an episode. I miss his quiet fortitude and the way he once cuddled with me in the middle of the night when mom threw him out of her room. She threw him out because earlier that day she caught him naked and dancing to _Seasons in the Sun _by Terry Jacks.

"Holy crap, Ray!" I remember her yelling. "Will you get _inside _the house!"

I could use some of his fortitude in me when I meet with Christian on Wednesday.

Afterward, Kate and I finish packing our stuff, getting ready for our big move. We share a bottle of cheap wine because we like the feeling of being hung-over the next morning. When I'm finally ready to go to bed, my room is almost done. I'm so tired, I accidentally pack Kate into a box. She's so drunk, she doesn't even notice.

No matter, in the morning she'll just assume she was on another successful date.


	32. Chapter 13b

Oh my gosh!

Paul is back!

I'm hard at work at his brother's hardware store eating some Chicken McNuggets, when Paul walks in through the front door, and, boy, does he look _awful! _He looks so bad, the Elephant Man would pay to see _him_.

His hair is kinky and sticking straight up, smoldering as if he stuck one of his sausage-shaped fingers into an electrical outlet. His clothes are ripped and torn and singed on the exposed edges. His face and arms are smudged with soot and ash. Wisps of smoke are emanating from every part of his body, as if he walked through a burning fire, just like we used to do when we were kids. And-can you believe it?-he's missing _one_ shoe.

What a dork.

I can't help but think this is all some elaborate ruse to get me to go out with him. He's _always _asking me out.

That Paul. He's kind. Treats me with respect. Brings me little gifts of food. He's nice. Is always asking how I am. And brings me more food. He's what every girl _says _what she wants in a man.

What a dope.

"Holy crap, Paul!" I cry out. "What the heck happened to _you?_"

"I... I..." he stammers. "I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?"

I'm not really interested in what happened to him, I just don't feel like working. If his brother-my boss-sees me talking to him, well, what's _he_ going to tell me?

"The last thing I remember is leaving Clayton's," Paul says. "I was walking toward my car, when someone asked me if I had the time.

"'The time for what?' I asked him back.

"And then someone hit me on the head. The next thing I knew I was in Albuquerque and stuffed into the trunk of a car. The next thing I knew after that, I was in some guy's basement. A bicycle lock around my neck secured me to a rather convenient pole in the middle of the room. Some bald man with a goatee and glasses was yelling at some young guy he called Jessie, and telling him to do something he didn't want to do. Jessie was crying. Jessie was _always _crying. The next thing I knew, we were upstairs in the second-floor bathroom. Jessie was pouring hydrochloric acid in the bathtub. I asked him what he was going to do.

"'Shut up, bee-_yotch!_' he yelled at me.

"He kept calling me 'bee-_yotch!_' for some reason. I was tied up, so what could I do? And then, once the tub was full and smoking from the acid, he _put me inside!_"

Paul went quiet for a while. Apparently, still upset from his ordeal.

"And what happened next?" I ask him, trying to make his story eat up as much time as possible. Sorry, but if you ask me the whole thing sounded like a scene from some bad cable TV show.

"I _fell through the ceiling!_"

"You fell through the ceiling?"

"I fell through the ceiling. You see, the acid had eaten through the bottom of the tub and floor, and when he put me inside I just fell through to the first floor of the house. When the floor broke, it broke _bad._ The acid had burned my skin, my hair, my clothes, but it also burned the ropes I was tied up with."

"So what did you do?"

"What did I do?" he repeated in disbelief. "I _ran!_ That's what I did. Jessie was chasing after me, yelling, 'Mr. White! Mr. White!'. The old bald guy with the goatee and glasses was chasing after me, yelling, 'Jessie! Jessie!'."

His head and his hands were bobbing all over the place, as if reliving the nightmare.

What a wuss.

"Did you escape?" I ask him.

He gives me an _I'm-here-aren't-I?_ look, and then says, "But that's not even the worst part. The worst part was when..."

The time-clock's minute hand makes its final click, and it's time for me to leave.

"Sorry, Paul," I tell him, clocking out. "But you can finish your story later, I've got to leave."

He stands there with an unbelieving look on his face, his hair still smoldering.

"I've got a_ date!_"

Once home, I see Kate has TWO dresses laid out for me to choose from for my date with Christian.

"Thanks, Kate," I tell her and give her a grateful hug.

"They're not for you, they're for Jose," she tells me. "It's his night to perform in the drag show at the Old Plantation. Aren't you going?"

"I have a date with Christian," I remind her.

"Well, don't do anything I wouldn't do," she tells me.

_Which isn't much_, I think to myself.

What I _say_ is, "Have we got any Chicken McNuggets? I'm _starving_."

When I'm done eating, I go into my room to dress for my date. Should I shower or at least shave? _What's the point?_ I finally decide. Christian hasn't shown any discernment yet, why should he now?

As I leave, I ask Kate how I look,

"Ooh, you look just like Marilyn Monroe," she gushes. "How she looks now."

Christian is such a gentleman, he graciously allows me to drive myself to our date.

I pull up to _Jugalos_, a very authentic Mexican restaurant. It's so authentic, when they bring you a glass of water, they advise you not to drink it. It's the fanciest restaurant I've ever been invited to. Aw heck, who am I kidding? Burger King would qualify as the fanciest restaurant I've ever been invited to, since I've never been invited to a restaurant before.

I park and walk straight to the bar area holding a duck under my arm, per Christian's request. The bartender stops what he's doing when he sees me.

"Hey," he says, rudely, "where do you think you're going with that pig?"

"It's not a pig," I correct him, rather annoyed. "It's a _duck!_"

"Excuse me, ma'am," he tells me, "but I was talking to the duck."

_Well_... I've never been so insulted in my life.

I immediately walk over to the booth where Christian is already sitting. He is nothing if not prompt. The trouble with being prompt is one might get the idea that you have nothing better to do than wait around for somebody else to show up.

He looks me up and down with a lustful sparkle in his eye.

"What are you doing with that pig?"

"_Christian!_" I say. "This is the duck you told me to bring."

"I didn't tell you to bring a duck."

"Yes, you did."

"No, I didn't."

_Well_... I don't know _what _to say.

"Yes, you did."

"My dear," he says, finally, "you must have misunderstood me. I said: _viaduct._"

"Yeah, that's what I want to know," I tell him.

"Know what?"

"Why a duck?"

"Why a what?"

"A duck. Why a duck?"

"No, no. Not '_why_ a duck'. _Viaduct._"

"That's what I'm asking. Why a duck? Why not another bird, like a crow or a chicken?"

"Because I didn't say 'why a duck,' I said _viaduct._ A long bridge-like structure built across a valley or some other low ground."

"And why limit yourself to birds?" I go on, not really listening to him. "Why not a cow or a horse?"

Christian sits there and looks at me for a very long time. Finally, he says, "Because I need the feathers. That's why a duck."

_Well_...now he's finally starting to make some sense. I hand him his duck and tell him to go crazy. He hands the duck to the waiter and tells him not to bring it back until it's on a plate of nachos_._

"Might I recommend a nice durkey instead?" the waiter suggests.

Christian considers this.

Me, I'm confused.

"A durkey," Christian explains, "is a duck stuffed into a turkey."

"Doesn't that technically qualify as bestiality?" my enquiring mind wanted to know. Now it's Christian's turn to be confused, so I clarify: "A kind of inter-species romance?"

"It might," Christian says, "but the duck doesn't go in there willingly."

"It doesn't?"

"Plus, they're both dead."

Holy crap! Bestiality AND necrophilia? What kind of a sick place did Christian bring me to?

"Mr. Grey," I tell him rather formally, "is this a taste of what's in store for me if I sign your contract and become your submissive?"

"No, Miss Steele," he answers. "This is just a date. If I wanted to give you a taste of what's in store for you if you sign my contract and become my submissive I would have taken you to where the NFL players go for dinner."

"Mr. Grey, I don't know what kind of girl you think I am..."

"Oh, I think we've already determined what kind of girl you are. What we're quibbling about now is whether or not you'll sign the contract."

I get up to leave. The waiter sees me and immediately brings me the check.

"Do you mind paying for this?" Christian asks me, patting his empty pockets. "I seem to have forgotten my wallet."

Once outside, the valet brings me my car, a sea-blue Beetle with a _My Other Car Is A Mercedes _bumper sticker on the, um, bumper. I tip the valet a dollar.

"Thanks," he tells me. "Now I'll be able to retire."

I don't know if he's kidding or not. I live in El Paso where the cost of living is cheap. In fact, our city's motto is: _El Paso! We Go To KFC To Lick OTHER People's Fingers!_

Christian has followed me outside. His jaw hits the pavement when he sees what I'm driving.

"Is this your car?" he asks incredulously. "I bet the last time you took it in for an oil change, the mechanic told you to keep the oil and change the car."

"What?" I challenge him. "Doesn't it fit your high standard for what a submissive should drive?"

"No, I'm just wondering how you fit inside."

_Well..._ it seems this is my night to be insulted.

"It didn't bother the circus clowns who owned it before me," I tell him. "Besides, I bet you own a BMW because it's easy to spell."

Angrily, I get in my car, accidentally slamming the door on my hand in the process.

"I meant to do that," I tell him and drive off.

I'm still angry when I get home.

_Ding!_

How does he _do _that?

From: Christian Grey

To: Anastasia Steele

Subject: Tonight

_Dear Miss Steele, I do apologize for my behavior this evening, and I sincerely hope you find it in your heart to forgive me. Also, you didn't leave a tip._

If I wasn't crying before, I am now.

That Christian Grey, why does he confuse me so? On the one hand, I am _so_ attracted to him. On the other, he disgusts me. And on the third hand, what am I doing with three hands?

_Why a duck?_

_ Why not a duck?_

_ Because I need the feathers._

Everything he says is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enchilada.

Mmm... enchiladas.

Oh, why didn't I at least have dinner before I stormed out of that Mexican restaurant?

I hug my pillow tight, hoping from some kind of comfort. It doesn't give me any. With a scream, I punch it and then start beating it against the wall in frustration. It bursts open and a thousand feathers come flying out.

Duck feathers.


	33. Chapter 14a

It's the morning of my graduation from UTEP, and I'm spending it naked in Christian Grey's bed. He's standing over me with a spatula in one hand and a flyswatter in the other. With one he's going to see how fast my skin turns pink after the first swat, with the other he's keeping the bedroom free from annoying insects.

He's promised me an orgasm.

"Giving a woman an orgasm is a beautiful thing," he told me. "Or so I've heard."

As he lifts his hand to give me the Spatula Treatment he takes a quick glance at his watch.

"Oh, dear," he tells me. "You better hurry, or you'll be late."

_Oh my gosh, he's right!_

I jump up, run out of the bedroom and into the building where my class is about to start. I run up and down the halls, but where's my class? I don't know where I'm supposed to go. There's a boy at his locker. His face is hidden, so I can't see who it is. I run up to him just as he closes the door. He's holding a spatula in one hand.

_Oh my gosh, it's Christian!_ How did he get here before me?

"Thank goobers, it's you," I gasp. "You've got to help me, Christian."

"But you're too late, Miss Steele," he tells me, calmly. "Too late."

"How do I get to my class?" I ask him desperately. I am so screwed, and not in the fun way. "How do I get to my class?"

"Why, I thought you knew, dear Ana. You sign the contract."

_Sign the contract? _What the heck does he mean? I'm here to take my final exam. Without it I won't be able to graduate, and he wants me to sign a contract? Is he crazy? I already know the answer to that question. There's nothing I can do...

...so I sit.

But I'm too late. Too late. Everybody, all the other students, are already leaving. They've taken their exams and are filing out, on their way to graduation. How happy they all look in their shiny gowns, eager to start their new lives.

"You do know you're still naked, don't you?" my professor wants to know.

"I know, Professor," I say, making my excuses, "but I was running late. I didn't have time to dress."

I look up and see it's Christian. _He's _my professor? After all this time, how did I not know this? Maybe I should have come to class more often.

"Not that I'm complaining," he continues, "but there's a proper time and place for everything."

"I'm here to take my test, Professor."

"Your test?" he says, sympathetically. "Poor Ana. My poor sweet Ana. You're too late, my dear. I'm afraid the time for testing is over. Now is the time for action, my dear."

"I'll do anything, Professor. Anything. Just let me take my test."

I'm squirming in my seat, practically sliding off. All this anxiety has gotten me rather, well, hot.

He sees my excitement. My discomfort. My yankee-doodle-dandy

And he smiles.

"Well, I suppose I could make an exception, Miss Steele," he tells me. "After all, I've made so many exceptions for you already."

He places the final exam in front of me.

"Thank you," I gasp in appreciation. "Thank you. Thank you, thank, you, thank you. You won't regret this, I promise you."

"I'm sure I won't," he tells me. "You've never disappointed me before. Except for that one time. And then the other."

I look down, but instead of the exam, it's that dang contract he wants me to sign. I look up at him. He arches an eyebrow, steeples his fingers, and twiddles his thumbs.

"I... this isn't..." I stammer, trying to get the words out.

"Just sign it, Ana," he tempts. "Sin a little."

His words are so seductive. He reminds me of the serpent in the Garden of Eden. Only with arms and legs. And a spatula instead of an apple.

You know, I've never understood how Adam & Eve were tempted out of Eden by forbidden fruit. Now forbidden pizza I'd understand, but an _apple?_ They make good pies, but that's about it.

Mmm... pies.

Meanwhile, I have the pen in my hand. He puts one hand softly on my shoulder, urging me forward. I look up at him, into his eyes. They look so haunted, pleading. There's a little eye-booger in the corner of one, but that only makes him sexier to me. It makes him seem... less reptilian.

"I... I'm not sure," I say, my hand quivering.

"Ana," he tells me, his lips close enough to tickle the hair growing out of my ear, "in the words of Confucius: 'Virginity. Like balloon. One prick. All gone.'"

He places two soft fingers on my hand and pushes down gently.

"Sign it," he says, exerting his will over mine. "You won't regret it."

I can't help it, I feel myself giving in.

"Sign it," he says again, his mother by his side. _His mother?_

She's holding him by the arm and whispers something into his ear, but I can't tell if she's encouraging him forward or holding him back. Maybe her spitting in my direction is a clue.

The pen's point lightly touches the contract. The paper ignites where they meet, then smolders. Little wisps of white smoke leisurely belly-dancing upward.

"Sign it," he says.

"Sign it," so does his mother.

"Sign it," two familiar voices say.

Kate and Jose have joined us. Where the heck did _they _come from? They smile at each other as they share a banana.

I'm about to sign, when...

..._the alarm goes off!_

I jump up, gasping for breathe. I'm covered in sweat, as usual. I look at the clock, it's eight in the morning. Was it...? Could it just have been...? Oh, thank goobers! In a moment of stunning unoriginality, I realize...

_ ..._it was all a dream.


	34. Chapter 14b

I awake with a shock. That's the last time I fall asleep in the bathtub with a toaster.

Wow... morning already.

"What time is it?" I ask my Hello Kitty alarm clock. Not having a mouth, it doesn't answer, so I look to see where the little and big hands are pointing. I quickly do the math. Hmmm, carry the one... it's eight o'clock.

_Eight o'clock?_ Times a-wasting!

I run into the bathroom for my morning constitutional. My tummy is rumbling, just a tad upset. I can't take care of business, however, because there's a man working on the plumbing. A _Mexican _man. Must be that cousin of Jose's from Mexico who's... um... visiting. He said he would send him over to fix our toilet.

"Oh, excuse me," I tell him. "Are you working on the plumbing?"

"_Si_," he tells me.

This toilet had _always_ given us trouble. That's one of the reasons we're moving.

"I guess Jose sent you."

"_Si_."

"Are you his cousin?"

"_Si_."

"My name's Ana. What's yours?"

"Sy."

"Sy?"

"_Si_."

"Do you speak English, Sy?"

"_Si._"

"Sy, I _really_ have to use the bathroom."

"So?"

"So?"

"_Si_."

"Are you saying I can't use it?"

"_Si_."

This place drives me nuts. The toilet has never worked properly, and now I have to use the bathroom and I can't. It has to be fixed before we can move out or we'll lose our deposit, but why should we pay for something to be fixed that was already broken to begin with? We couldn't afford to hire a real plumber, so Jose said he'd get one of his relatives to do the job.

"A cousin of mine," Jose told me. "He works real cheap."

"Real cheap?"

"_Si_."

I vent all my frustrations to my captive audience. He listens patiently. I tell him that we-Kate and I-feel we're owed some kind of monetary settlement for all the pain and suffering we've been through.

"So what do you think we should do?" I ask him finally.

"Sue."

"Sue?"

"_Si._"

"That's good advice, Sy."

"_Si_."

"By the way, thanks for coming by on such short notice. Jose says you work cheap."

"_Si_."

"So... how much _are_ you going to charge us?"

"A hundred bucks."

"_A HUNDRED BUCKS?_"

"_Si_."

I'm discombobulated and just plain bobulated. I excuse myself and head back to bed.

I'm so confused. Do I really have that final exam to take? Or was all that nonsense just a dream? I guess there's only one way to find out. I get back up and put on the first thing I find: Christian's jacket. That's sure to not draw suspicion from my nosy roommate. Speaking of whom...

Kate is in the kitchen when I stagger in like Frankenstein's monster. I'm not what you would call a morning person. Kate, as usual, looks beautiful. When I first met her our freshman year at UTEP, she was rather plain looking. And then she had a drawing of a beautiful face tattooed over her plain one. It was a gift from her father. What a difference it made. She went from looking like King Kong to Fay Wray.

"Well," she says when she sees me, "look who's up. You look like something the cat dragged in. And ate. And puked up on the floor."

That Kate. She's such a kidder.

We don't have a cat.

"Thanks," I say, "and your tattoo looks as beautiful as ever."

"Well, you know what I always say."

"What?"

"I was hoping _you'd_ know, because I can never remember." She squints her eyes and takes a closer look at me. "Oh my goodness... is _that_ Christian's jacket you're wearing?"

I thought she'd never notice.

"This old thing?" I mock. "I've had this Armani bathrobe for years."

"Tell me, tell me, tell me," She says, apparently wanting me to tell her something. "Did you sleep with him?"

"Not a wink," I assure her.

She seems satisfied with that and begins to talk. Man, she has a lot to say.

I head to the refrigerator and begin to make myself my morning concoction. I take some low-fat milk, mix it with honey, add some Chia seeds and stir vigorously. It's a nutritious drink designed to give me plenty of energy for the day. After I make it, I immediately pour it into the toilet, cutting out the middle-man. I'm on my third helping of whale blubber before I notice Kate is wrapping it up.

"And that's the story of the man from Nantucket," she finishes. "Now tell me all about your date, Ana. Did Christian wonder where I was?"

"No."

"Did he wonder who I was with?"

"No."

"Did he wonder where I was and who I was with?"

"Kate, I keep telling you" I say, telling her, "I really don't want to talk about it, and that's not because of any contract I may or may not have signed that legally requires me by law to keep mum."

"Isn't there _anything_ you can tell me?"

"Well, he doesn't like Wanda."

"He _doesn't?_ I can't believe that. Who's Wanda?"

"I don't know. Like you, I wasn't paying attention to the last chapter."

"Well..." she starts and then tapers off with nothing to say.

"Well..." I begin, trying to think of some other stuff to fill up this chapter. I get a sudden burst of inspiration. It was the bean burrito I had from Taco Bell on my way home last night.

She lifts two fingers to her nose and squeezes her nostrils shut.

"You want to listen to my valedictorian speech?" she squeaks.

Before I can even say yes, she's already running out of the room. Wow, she must really be anxious to have me listen to her speech.

While she's gone, I take the opportunity to think about that dream I had last night, about the contract Christian Grey wants me to sign, and about that bean burrito I had at Taco Bell. That dream must have had some deeper meaning, but as for what that deeper meaning is, I don't understand.

The thing I remember most about last night's dream is Christian flying a 747 into the Grand Canyon. A big, long, hard object going into a giant gaping hole. Even though a 747 is huge, in the dream, once it was inside the canyon the plane looked so small and the hole so big. Surely that must mean something. but I can't make the connection.

My inner goddess shows up smoking a cigarette. She has dark bags under her eyes.

"Where've you been?" I ask her.

"Mind your own business," she tells me.

Just then, Kate rushes back in with a copy of her speech in one hand and a book of matches in the other. Unfortunately for her, I just had another inspiration, so she keeps moving on out the door.

"I'll see you at the graduation," she yells on her way out.

I'd answer, but I'm in the middle of another inspiration.


	35. Chapter 14c

There's a knock at my front door. I look out the peephole. Great googly-moogly, it's Ray! My step-father! The man who's sacrificed so much for me.

I quietly sneak out the window.


	36. Chapter 14d

I'm in the auditorium with the rest of my college graduating class. You can feel the excitement in the air. It's like "excite" with a "ment" at the end

The comedian and host of the whole graduation/comedy roast, Jeffrey Ross, takes the stage at exactly 11:00am. The chancellor walks in just behind him and makes him give it back.

"Good afternoon," the Roastmaster General says, "we're here to celebrate UTEP's graduating class of _who-the-heck-cares?_"

He waits for a healthy chuckle from the audience, and then continues.

"Joining me at the podium will be Milton Berle, Buddy Hackett, Jack Benny, Sid Ceasar, Geroge Burns of Burns & Allen, Bob Hope of Bob & Hope, Don Rickles, the Marx brothers, the Three Stooges, Abbott & Costello of Abbott & Costello, and Lisa Lampanelli."

There is polite applause at the mention of each name, but the crowd really erupts at the mention of Lisa Lampanelli. Jeffrey Ross holds up his hand to calm us down. Who's this Lisa Lampanelli everybody is getting so excited over? I look at her. She looks like a million dollars... all green and crumpled.

"First up, it is my honor to introduce to you... _Milton Berle!_"

The crowd lets out an enthusiastic snore as Mr. Television takes the stage.

"Good evening, ladies and germs," Milton says getting up from his wheelchair. "I don't want to brag, but those rumors you've heard about the size of my penis are all true. My penis is so big that. like you, it graduated from college..."

We applaud enthusiastically at this.

"..._a year before I did!_"

After Milton Berle gets done bragging about the size of his equipment, Buddy Hackett takes the stage.

"Good evening, ladies and germs," he says. "I'd like to thank the chancellor for his kind invitation." At this, he turns to the chancellor. "Thank you, Mr. Chancellor. Any similarity between you and a human being is simply coincidental."

Buddy Hackett steps down and Jack Benny gets up.

"It's lovely to be here," he begins. "Really lovely. As I look at the chancellor, I can't help but think that some town somewhere is missing its idiot." He turns to address the chancellor personally. "Are you the first one in your family to be born without a tail? I thought so."

Jack Benny steps down, having gotten some pretty good laughs, but no one still knows who he is.

Sid Caesar takes Jack's place behind the podium. He looks around, his crazy eyes taking everything in.

"Mr. Chancellor!" he says, a bit too loud. "I would like to say that, despite what everybody think, you're not obnoxious like so many other people. You're obnoxious in new and different ways. While your students might think that you have a stick up your ass, let me correct that misperception. It's not a stick. The space aliens just forgot to remove their anal probe."

George Burns takes a long time to make his way to the podium after Sid Caesar. A loooong time. Man, that old guy moves so slow it looks like he's moving _backward_. He slowly turns his head one way, then he slowly turns his head the other way. That's probably the most exercise he's gotten all week.

"Ah..." he says, a big cigar between his fingers. He moves the cigar to his mouth, but before he can take a puff, he moves it back down. "Ah..." He turns to the chancellor. "Do you want me to accept your graduating class as they are, or do you want me to like them?" To us, he says, "Your chancellor is a modest man, and, believe me, he has much to be modest about. He could be described as charming, intelligent, and witty, and who knows, perhaps one day he will be."

Bob Hope took time off from entertaining the troops and takes his place behind the podium with a big smile. As he passes the chancellor, he hands him something.

"Here's twenty cents," we overhear him say. "Call all your friends and bring me back the change." To us, he says, "I love your chancellor. He's a difficult man to forget, but it's well worth the effort. He's a fine example for you, his students. He started out with nothing, and, to this day, he still has most of it. He's a man of many hidden talents. As soon as anybody can find one, we'll let you know what it is."

Don Rickles is next on the stage.

"Good evening, ladies and germs," he says, smiling like a snake about to devour a rat. "I don't know why everybody is insulting the chancellor. He's a fine, fine man. Why, his own father looks at him as the son he never had. Do you know what he uses for contraception? His face. I hear the only place he's ever been invited is outside." Like the other comedians, Mr. Rickles addresses our chancellor personally. "I know you're a self-made man, Mr. Chancellor. It's so nice of you to take the blame." And, like the other comedians, he turns back to us. "His wife told me that he brought religion into her life. She never knew what Hell was until she married him. Speaking of his wife, she's so easy that the college faculty affectionately calls her 'Doorknob.' _Everybody _gets a turn.'"

While the Marx Brothers were scheduled to show up, only Groucho does. Chico and Harpo had something else to do, like decompose. He raises and lowers his eyebrows several times, and wiggles his cigar in his hand.

"Let me just say that I respect the chancellor," he tells us. "In fact, I respect the dead. And the only way I could respect the chancellor more, is if he were dead." With this, he, too, turns to the chancellor. "You know, I could rent you out as a decoy for duck hunters." He turns back to us. "I thought about you people all day yesterday. Yesterday, I was at the zoo. Speaking of the zoo, last night I shot an elephant in my pajamas. What he was doing in my pajamas, I'll never know."

Next up are The Three Stooges, but Larry, Curly, and Moe only spend the whole time hitting each other, so Abbott & Costello take their place.

"You know, Lou," Abbott tells Costello, "I like your approach, now let's see your departure."

"Aw, gee, Bud," Costello tells Abbott, "I used to think you were a pain in the neck. Now I have a much lower opinion of you."

"Did you say something, Lou? I don't mind you talking, if you don't mind my not listening."

"I said I'd like to give you a going-away present, Bud, but first you have to do your part."

And then they turn to us and say, "We'd like to leave all of you with one thought, but, since you're graduating from UTEP, we're not sure you have a place to put it."

Jeffrey Ross was quick to take the stage again. This graduation was sucking so much, Paris Hilton felt left out.

"And now, ladies and germs," he says, "the comedian you've all been waiting for. She's the Queen of Mean. She's the Wicked Witch of the West Coast! She's the Girl Next Door-_if_ you happen to live next door to Overeaters Anonymous! LISA LAMPANELLI!"

Lisa energetically waddles onto the stage like a walrus on crack.

"I'd like to thank the chancellor for allowing me to make an appearance here today. The chancellor is so ugly that, when he masturbates, his hand throws up. He's so hairy, he looks like Chewbacca's butt. He loves to play Xbox because that's the only box he can get into. I bet you don't know this about your chancellor, but he's always been ahead of his time. He was the first man to take Viagra and wash it down with prune juice. that's why he doesn't know if he's coming or going. But enough about the chancellor. As I look around, I see the three _vice_-chancellors he brought along with him. I don't want to say they went into teaching because they're pedophiles, but they shop at K-Mart because they keep hearing little boy's pants are half-off. Oh, I also see the senior faculty is here, all dressed in their orange and blue school colors. What are you losers doing here? Was Hooter's closed? Oh, and there's the teaching staff. I don't know what's worse, fellas, the education you give your students or the smell of your feet. Hey, everybody, it's Professor Collins! Is that a toupee on your head, sir, or a sick ferret? And nice teeth. Are they yours, or did you bump into a piano? It's amazing how you can be so old, and yet still addicted to drugs... stool softeners. Now where's this Kate Kavanagh I hear so much about? The student body knows who I'm talking about, but they probably know her from her nickname 'Elevator.' She got it because if you press a button, she'll go down. I hear her butt is so big, when she goes to the beach the tide comes in. I hear no one wanted to go with her to Homecoming, so she took her brother. Hey, at least he got laid. And what's up with her breast implants? She's been inflated more times than Jose's prom date. Speaking of Jose, doesn't he look like Rocky? I'm talking about the character from the movie _Mask_. The last time I saw a face like his, it was carrying a bone in its mouth. Which reminds me, he's gay, isn't he? He took an AIDs test and got a 55. Settle down, settle down everybody. Don't embarrass yourselves in front of our special guest, Mr. Christian Grey, the billionaire sex predator. What can you say about Christian Grey that hasn't already been said by the women in the Witness Protection Program? Don't worry, Christian, I'm sure that 666 on your scalp is just an unfortunate birthmark. An interesting fact about Mr. Grey, is he's a member of PETA, People who Eat and Torture Animals. I'm not saying he's a dangerous man, but his blood type is O-shit. I hear he thinks the best part about meth is that it keeps the price of prostitution down. And, finally, YOU... the graduating class of the University of Texas at El Paso. Are you really the graduates or the children of the Octo-mom? I look at all of you and I can see that you don't know the meaning of the word 'fear.' In fact, you look like you don't know the meaning of most words. Your brains are proof that nature _does not _abhor a vacuum. I'm kidding, I'm kidding. As a graduating class, you're not as bad as people say... you're _worse!_ Thank you, and don't forget to tip your waitresses!"


	37. Chapter 14e

"That was the worse college graduation I've ever been to," Christian tells me back stage, "and that includes mine. It was interrupted by a malcontent ex-student with a grievance against the headmaster, Professor Doubledork."

I try to imagine Christian as a college student. I imagine Twinkies instead.

"That's funny," I say. "I can't picture you as a student throwing your graduation cap up into the air."

"I didn't. Those things cost money."

He looks at me.

"And," he says, "speaking of money..."

He's had one hand hidden behind his back the whole time. What has he been hiding? Could it be a graduation gift? For _me?_ Ooh, what can it be? A ring? One that I wear on my finger?

He brings out a bird cage from behind his back and proudly holds it up. It's covered by a shiny black cloth, perfectly tailored to the cage.

"...I bought you a gift for your graduation. A rare Liberian parrot from west Africa. It's rare because it doesn't have Ebola. It was very expensive."

He removes the cloth.

"His name is Monty," he tells me.

I look into the cage. The parrot is laying on the bottom of the cage on newspaper and mangy feathers. Its legs are sticking stiffly straight up into the air. Like Kate, only with less enthusiasm.

"Is he, um... _okay?_" I ask, not wanting to get too close.

Christian cocks his head and gives his gift a quizzical look. Unfortunately, that's the only thing he's cocked lately.

"Hmm..." he says, and arches an eyebrow.

He gives his chin a thoughtful rub, shakes the cage from side to side, then up and down. Nothing.

"He's just resting, dear," he tells me.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. He's just had a busy day."

He sticks his index finger between the bars and gives the motionless bird a little push.

"See?" he says. "It moved."

"No, it didn't."

"Yes, it did."

"No, it didn't."

"Yes, it did."

"No, it didn't. I _saw_ you. You pushed it with your finger."

"I was just giving him a massage, my dear. He likes that. It relaxes him. See? He's taking a nap now. Nighty-night, Monty."

He hands me the cage.

"He likes to take long, long naps," he says softly, almost whispering. "Try not to wake him."

Just then, a man with a gun runs up to us.

"This is a stick-up," the man yells, thrusting his gun forward. "Your money _or your life!_"

I grab Christian's arm, and try to hide behind him. He beats me to it.

"What?" Christian says, peeking out from around my delicate girth.

"I said, _your money OR YOUR LIFE!_"

Christian stands there, thoughtfully thinking, putting a forefinger on his temple to thoughtfully think some more.

"_Well?_" the robber says.

"_WELL?_" I say.

"Give me a second," Christian says. "I'm trying to decide."

Fortunately, Christian doesn't have to think for too much longer. The robber gets tired of waiting, grabs the cage from my hand, and runs off.

"Oh, my gosh, Christian," I exclaim, practically in tears. "I was so scared."

"Nonsense, my dear. You were in good hands."

"Yes, I was, and you can them off my ass now."

He comes around from behind me and I give him a grateful hug, trying to absorb some of his courage. He grabs me gently by the arm and leads me into a janitor closet located convienently close by.

"Christian," I say, "you were so brave, so brave."

"Yes, I was, wasn't I?"

"What's that smell?" I ask, crinkling my nose distastefully.

"That's the smell of bravery, dear one."

"You were so brave you deserve a reward."

"I do?"

"You do. I'm going to sign your contract, Christian," I tell him, and I rest my head against his chest. "I'm yours, all yours."

"All mine?"

"All yours."

"All mine?"

"Yes, all yours."

"Dear Ana, I'd just like to say that you may not be the prettiest, you may not be the thinnest, and you may not be the funnest..."

He pauses.

I wait.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog howls.

"And?" I say, encouragingly.

"And what?"

"Aren't you going to complete your thought?"

"I thought I did."

He looks at me. There's something he wants to say, but he can't quite get it out.

"I don't want you to worry, Ana," he says, finally. "I'm not talking about pre-marital sex..."

My heart leaps in my chest.

"...because I don't plan on marrying you."

"Christian," I swoon, "I'd just like to tell you..."

"Let me interrupt for a second here, Ana," Christian says, interrupting me for a second. "Why is ityou constantly feel the need to introduce everything you're going to tell me? 'Christian, I want to tell you something...' 'Christian, you won't believe this...' 'Christian, of course it's edible...' Why don't you just tell me straight out so I can get back to ignoring you?"

I love his honesty, his compassion.

"Please be tender, Christian," I say to him, hoping this doesn't turn into some kind of horrible monkey paw wish.

He must see my vulnerability, because he takes my hand in his and tells me, "Don't worry, Ana. I promise you I'll be tender. Do you know why?"

I shake my head. That means no.

"Because of your heart," he explains. "You have the biggest heart I've ever come across. No, wait... I was thinking of something else."

"Ana! Ana!" I turn around, hearing a familiar voice calling me from a distance. It's my stepfather, Ray. The man who's sacrificed so much for me.

I turn back around in time to see Christian quietly sneaking out a window.


	38. Chapter 14f

"Hey, Annie, sweetheart, I'm so glad we finally caught up with each other," my stepfather croons. "I was beginning to think you were sneaking out the window to avoid me."

"Oh, Da-_aad_," I say, avoiding eye contact.

"I like it when you call me dad."

"You do?"

"Not really, I prefer Ray."

To celebrate my college graduation, Ray has brought me to the fanciest restaurant in El Paso, _Bulimia's_. "A Meal So Nice, You Can Eat It Twice" is their motto.

"Order anything you want, sweetheart," he tells me, as he looks up and down his menu. "Nothing's too good for my little girl."

"Well," I say, also perusing all the yummy entrees. No Cleveland Steamers on _this _menu. "I've never had caviar or lobster before."

"She'll have the cheese sandwich," Ray tells the waiter as he hands back the menu. "And bring her the check."

While we wait for our food to arrive, Ray turns serious.

"You know, sweetheart," he says, "it broke my heart when you left home. I know you were on your way to college, but it still hurt. I remember when I first moved out of my parent's house. The first thing I wanted to do was buy myself the fastest motorcycle I could find, but my brother, you see, had just died the year before in a horrible accident, so my mom told me no."

"Because she loved you and was afraid for your safety?"

"Because my brother had a motorcycle, and she wanted to sell that one to me. On that note, I want to give-not sell-you something precious. Some land that's been in my family for generations."

He reaches into his jacket pocket for-what?-_a deed?_

It was a jar filled with dirt.

"This is for you, sweetheart, you've earned it. It's for you, for your children, but not your children's children, because I don't believe children should be having sex."

I take the jar and hold it up to my eyes to get a closer look. I shake it up and down.

Yeah, it's dirt all right.

"Uh, gee... thanks dad," I say, my bank account feeling emptier than ever.

My cheese sandwich is delicious. It's just the right amount of cheese. Not too much cheese. Not too little. Who knew cheese could be so... cheesy.

Aw, who am I I kidding? Cheese sucks.

"How's your sandwich, sweetheart?"

"It's delicious, Ray."

After such a fancy dinner, my stepfather drives me back to my apartment. I roll down the car window and enjoy the fresh air it lets in. I had forgotten the restaurant's cheese and my lactose intolerance wouldn't mix.

"Well, it's been a big old day, hasn't it?" he says, when he's finally able to breathe. He pulls up to a stop in front of my apartment building.

"It sure has, Ray," I agree. "Come back when you can't stay so long."

"Want me to come in and make you some tea?" he asks, but he's too late.

I've already snuck out the window.

I wander listlessly back into my apartment. First thing I want to do is check my cell phone for messages. I guess I could have checked it at any time during the evening, or even on the walk to my apartment, but when have I ever done anything that's made any sense?

Hmm, the battery is low. I suppose I have to find my charger to charge it before I can collect my messages. That really has nothing to do with the story, but it sure... does... eat... up... space.

I have four missed calls, one voice message, and two texts. Three of the missed calls are from Christian. Boy, for a billionaire playboy, that guy sure does come across as desperate, but in a rich, self-confident kind of way. One of the calls is from Jose. He's also left me a voicemail.

"Can you lend me five bucks, Ana?" he asks me via the recorded message. I press delete.

That Jose. What a joker. A broke joker.

I open the texts.

_"Where are you, Ana? Why aren't you answering my calls?"_

_"Um, don't get the idea that I'm desperate or anything. I've got plenty of billionaire stuff to do. Believe me, PLENTY of billionaire stuff."_

They're both from Christian. You would have thought he would have put two and two together and realized I'd be with my stepfather, especially since I told him.

I better get in touch with him right away. Forget the phone, which I have in my hand. That would be too slow. I'd better get on the computer and contact him with an email. Talking with him personally is too impersonal for something so personal.

I see that he's already sent me several.

_"Ana?"_

_"Ana?"_

_"Ana?"_

_"Ana, are you there?"_

_"Ana, are you there? If you're there, why aren't you answering me?"_

_"Ana, where are you?"_

_"Where are you, Ana?"_

_"Why aren't you answering me?"_

_"Ana?"_

What does this guy do, sit by his computer sending emails all day long?

I quickly fire back an email to him.

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: I Just Got Home

_I just got home. I went to dinner with Ray, my stepfather. He treated me to a nice cheese sandwich and gave me a jar of dirt. I can't wait to show it to you._

I hit the "send" button and receive a reply almost immediately.

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Not That I'm Desperate Or Anything But...

_...why wait? I'll be right there._

And, sure enough, there's a knock at the door.


	39. Chapter 15a

"Why, Mr. Grey," I say playfully, "what an unexpected surprise."

He stands just outside my door looking like a million bucks. An interesting choice of fabric.

"Please, call me Christian," he tells me, and confidently strides in uninvited.

He's wearing a baseball cap with an interesting logo stitched on the front. It's the Wicked Witch from the Wizard of Oz leaving the little flirt from Kansas a message in the sky using the exhaust of her apparently fossil-fueled broom, but instead of _Surrender Dorothy_, she's sky-writing _Surrender the Booty_.

"I was just standing outside your door, thinking you might be in the mood for a booty call," Christian tells me with a dangerous look in his eye. The right one. No, the left. Oops, it was the right one after all. I know it's his right eye, because it's on the same side as my right eye. Or is that the left? Anyway...

"You bet I am, Christian," I say. "I am _sooo_ in the mood for a booty call. Just tell me one thing."

"What's that, my darling?"

"What's a booty call?"

His jaw drops. I remember when I used to do that, my stepfather would tell me, "Close your mouth or a fly will go in," and to illustrate his point, he would throw a fly inside my mouth.

"You don't know what a booty is?" Christian asks me.

"I don't know what a call is. Is that like a cape?"

"That's a cowl, you know, like what Batman wears."

I wince, remembering Fluffy. I do hope that precious little kitty is okay squashed underneath that giant penny.

"Oh," I say, "I thought a cowl was a large two-handled water vessel carried on a pole."

"That's also a cowl."

"It is?"

"It is."

"Then you must mean a caw."

"A caw?"

"You know, the noise a crow makes."

"Silly Ana, that doesn't even have an l at the end of it."

"Oh, I get it now. A _cal._"

"A what?"

"A cal."

"No, cal refers to wolframite, the Cornish name."

Mmmm... corn.

"Wolframite? What's that?"

"It's a brownish or blackish mineral."

"_Whew_, you had me scared for a second. I thought wolframite was a tiny werewolf. Do you mean call, as in a grant, particularly one giving protection?"

"That's a cowle."

"Then you must mean a call. The membrane enclosing a fetus."

"No, that's a caul, which is also a kind of hair net women use on their hair."

"You mean it's not the part of the peritoneum that extends from the stomach to the large intestine?"

"That too, but it's also a wooden clamp used to hold veneers together until the glue has set. What I'm talking about is a call, defined by Webster's Dictionary as 'a call, you idiot.'"

"Oh, a _call_. I thought you were talking about a kall, with a k."

"That word's not even in the dictionary."

"Imagine that, I'm smarter than the dictionary. Well then, the only thing left is call, as in an elevated mountain pass between two higher summits."

"Some _whats?_"

"Sum_mits!_"

"That's a col, not a call. What I'm talking about, my innocent one, is a booty call. When a gentleman calls upon a lady for some booty."

"Booty?"

"Yes, booty."

"Booty, as in _pirate_ treasure?"

"Only if you're a Greek pirate. Otherwise I'm talking about booty, as specified in page three, column two, fifth paragraph in the small print of the contract I hope you've already signed."

"Um... I haven't signed it yet. I was going to have an attorney review it first before I sign it."

"Silly girl, you don't need an attorney. You've got ME. I'm not like other men, I wouldn't lie to you."

"You wouldn't?"

"Of course not. You don't think I became a billionaire by lying to people, do you?"

"No, Christian."

"And, by the way..."

"Yes, Christian."

"...call me _Mr_. Grey."


	40. Chapter 15b

"Buh... buh... booty?" I sputter, and then spit it out all at once, "_Idon'tknowwhatyoumean_."

"Surely you've seen a Beyoncé video," Christian tells me.

I nod my head, shamefully admitting to having watched one. Or two.

"Then you should know what a booty is, seeing as how Lady B seems to have an abundance of one. Or two."

I stand there. My mind a blank. My face blanker.

"A bum?" he offers.

"No," I say.

"Can? Duff? Fanny?" he proffers.

"No, no, and no."

"Yum-yum? Bon-bon? Toot-toot?" he proposes.

"Nix. Nyet. Nein."

"Pooper? Pooter? Patootie?" he suggests.

"Sorry."

"Winkie? Wally? Whoopie Cushion?" he tenders.

"Whoopie Cushion?" I say, excited that I finally recognize something he said. "Isn't she on The View?"

"Surely you know what a gluteus maximus is?"

"You would think I would, but, sadly, I'm not into gladiator movies."

"How about that fuzzy little thing you sit on?" he says finally, exasperated.

"Oh! You mean my BUTT! Hmph! Well, why didn't you just say so?"

"Yes, your... butt. My, what a quaint colloquialism. You see, as it specifies in the contract, one of the things I would require you to do is take the hardest part of my body into your, um, butt."

"_You want to put YOUR HEAD in MY BUTT?_"

"I'm not talking about my head."

"Then what are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about fifth base."

"You're talking about _baseball?_"

"No, I'm talking about a bit of buggery."

"Bugs? Ew..."

"No, I'm talking about going in through the out door."

"In Through The Out Door? OMG! I _love _Led Zeppelin. That's, like, my favorite album."

"I'm not talking about Led Zeppelin. I'm talking about driving to brown town..."

"That would sound racist, if I could distinguish between sounds."

"...and plowing the backfield."

"Do I look like a farmer to you?"

He pauses, and then tries again.

"Do you know anything about winning a gold medal in the Analympics?"

"I'm not into sports."

"That's where, instead of doing a 69, you do a 66."

"I was never good at math."

"Would you be good at docking the submarine?"

"Not really, I'm claustrophobic."

"So, you don't want to be George Michael's biggest fan?"

"No."

"Or Michael Jackson's newest friend?"

"Not really."

"Would you consider going through a Village People's initiation?"

"Disco sucks."

"Maybe you'd like a backstage pass to an Elton John concert?"

"Who's Elton John?"

"Ana, my dear sweet Ana. You _are_ an innocent after all. Who would have thought you'd be so naïve about anal sex?"

"Oh! You mean, making a baby the hard way!"

Hmph! Well, why didn't he just say so?


	41. Chapter 15c

Christian comes close.

I can smell his cologne. Mmm... Taco Bell. Maybe it's not his cologne after all.

"Leave it all to me," he tells me, his fingers reaching the zipper at the back of my halter dress. "I've brought some lubricants, diuretics, and smelling salts."

My eyes widen.

"Why do I need smelling salts?" I ask him.

"They're not for you, they're for me," he tells me. "I faint at the sight of blood."

Oh, my. Did I stumble upon something I ought not have stumble upon?

"I... I... don't know," I whimper, meekly.

"Are you worried you won't measure up to all the other women I've been with, Ana? You won't but don't worry, you're every bit as pretty as that homeless lady we saw the other day. In a way, you remind me of Slingblade, only without the potential."

My eyes fill with tears. I've never been with another man. I wonder if they're all so loving and compassionate.

_Sniff._

"Don't cry, Ana. If I wanted to see a woman cry I'd go to Planned Parenthood. I'll be gentle, I promise. This reminds me of the last time I went to the dentist.

"'You're going to feel a little prick in your mouth,' he told me.

"'Then you'd better give me more gas,' I told him."

"I don't know, Christian. I mean, we're talking about an exit, not an entrance."

"You'll enjoy it, Ana. I have a special secret to making women moan with pleasure. I tape several hundred dollar bills to the ceiling over the bed for them to look at while I'm having my filthy way with them. It works every time."

"Have you ever done it before?"

"Done what?"

"Anal sex," I say, averting my eyes in embarrassment.

"With a woman?"

"Of course. Who else would I mean?"

"Uh, nothing. My first time making the brown eye blue was when I was on a business trip to Japan. The morning started with a gift from my business partners. A beautiful Asian girl for me to do with as I wished."

"And did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Do with her what you wished?"

"Of course I did. It would have been rude of me not to. Her name was Mariko, and while we were in the midst of our lovemaking, she kept crying out-screaming, really-'_Shigata ga nai, Anjin-san! Shigata go ani!_' Later that day, as I was playing a round of golf with my Japanese business partners, we were down to the last hole. By sheer luck I made a hole-in-one.

"'_Shigata ga nai!_' I yelled proudly in triumph. '_Shigata ga nai!'_

"My Japanese business partners all looked at each other, confused. Finally one of them asked me, 'What you mean _wrong hole_?'"

Christian stopped talking and looked around, quizzically. This time it was his turn to sniff.

"Is that pizza I smell?" he asked me. "Can I have a slice?"

I crinkled my nose at the lingering aroma of Parmesan cheese.

"Um... maybe I should go freshen up," I said.

"Why?"

"Because I stink up close."

"From far away, too."

I excuse myself, and quickly go to my bathroom. Lordy, lordy, it's a mess. Sy, Jose's plumber cousin, only succeeded in deplumbelating all the pipes and faucets, and they were all laying haphazardly on the floor waiting to correctly be put back together.

What to do? What to do?

I know! Kate's not home. I'll use _her _bathroom.

I've never been in Kate's bathroom before. It looks like a shrine. There are candles everywhere. I secure the plug in the bathtub and turn both handles so that both the hot and cold water are filling the tub together. I smile at my own little metaphor. Or is that a simile? Words confuse me.

I add some bath salts to the warm water. I hope these aren't the kind of bath salts that make me want to eat someone's face. I read a story in the newspaper quite awhile back where bath salts were making drug addicts eat people, and not in the fun way.

I take off all my clothes and step toe first into the warm liquid. Ooh, that feels nice. I lower myself, fuzzy-face first, and submerge completely. This... is... so... relaxing. Hmmm, what's that? There's a little water-sprayer-looking thingie. It looks like a water-pick, only different. I kinda/sorta remember Kate telling me about the special "friend" she has to wash her va-jay-jay with. This must be it. I press the lever and water comes out in a jet at the curved tip. I use it to wash my pits, between my toes, and even floss. I use it to wash the naughty place where the sun doesn't shine. Mmm... nice.

Time to wash the va-jay-jay, I guess.

Four hours later, I step out of the bathroom, naked, and ready for some hot monkey love. I can see Christian already waiting for me in bed.

"I'm here, Christian," I say, swaying my hips as I stroll sexily toward him. "Get ready for me to rock your world!"

Nothing.

"Christian? _Christian?_"

_Snore!_

Hmm... did I take too long?.


	42. Chapter 16a

I... feel... so... wonderful.

Every atom of my body, every cell... sated. I can't even begin to describe how deliciously delicious the whole experience finally was when I finally experienced it. He had me begging for more.

"More... more... more cheese on my chili cheese fries, please."

Since Christian was sound asleep, I decided to head out for a nosh. And a burger. Mostly, a burger. I ended up at a place called Frisco Burgers, where they advertise they make a good, old-fashion hamburger. It's on Yarborough Boulevard, and I immediately liked it because it had a quaint 50's feel to it.

And food.

"I'll have what _they're_ having," I told the waiter when he brought me a menu.

"Who?" he asked.

"Everybody."

Christian is always telling me not to limit myself, so I started here.

When I got back home, Christian was still snoring away. I took off all my clothes and started to crawl into bed with him, and that brings me back to the present.

Christian wakes up. He gives me that big billion-dollar morning-breath smile of his.

"Was I good, or what?" he asks, stretching his arms in contentment.

"Um... yeah."

"Yeah what?"

"Yeah, good."

"Damn right, I was good!"

He does the fist-pump, gives himself a high-five, and says, "And that, my dear, is the snap, crackle, pop of _that _tune. If you had half as much fun as I did, Ana, then I had _twice_ as much fun as you. You've opened yourself to me like a flower, and I want to water that flower, fertilized that flower, re-flower that flower so I can de-flower it all over again. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

"I'm a flower."

"Yes, you're a flower. And I, the gardener. Gardening his garden gardeningly. I once saw a sign that advertised free pillows, but when I went inside and requested one, I discovered they weren't free, after all. You had to purchase something in order to receive the pillow as a bonus. I argued with the salesman for an hour, but he refused to see things my way, so I bought the store and fired him. You see, Ana, I consider a promise to be a very sacred thing. Jesus' promise of salvation. Jerry Jones' promise that the Dallas Cowboys will make it to the Super Bowl. If you, like that salesman, break that promise to me, you will rue the day, I tell you. Rue the day!"

I smile and nod.

"I understand," I say, not understanding at all. My mind is a thousand miles away. At McDonald's. I wonder when they're bringing back the McRib.

"And on that note, my dear, this gardener must leave."

"Leave? So soon? Can't we do it? Again, I mean?"

"No, my sweet angel, I got mine. Besides, I don't want to overwhelm you with my superior love-making skills."

"Not even a little?"

"I'll call you," he says, and kisses me. "Hmm... you taste just like chili cheese fries. Is there no end to your surprises?"

I wave at him as he opens the door and walks into my closet.

"It's the other door." I tell him.

"I knew that," he tells me back and leaves.

How can I feel so good and so bad at the same time? On the one hand, my Frisco feast was delicious, but, on the other, I forgot to order dessert. Not to mention this Christian thing. How can he just wang-dang-doodle and go?

Too bad Kate's not here, she could talk to me about it. After all, she's got a lot of experience. A LOT of experience. She's told me proudly, on more than one occasion, that in high school her nickname was Corn Chip, because she was Frito Lay.

I once looked up the word "experience" in the dictionary and I saw a picture of Ron Jeremy. He was pointing to a picture of Kate with one hand and giving a thumbs-up sign with the other.

But Kate's not here.

Needing to fatten this book up, I decide to call my mother instead.

"Hello?" she answers.

"Hi, mom. It's Ana."

"Oh, hi, Ana. Listen, I'm so sorry I couldn't make it to your graduation. Did you get my card?"

"I sure did, mom," I say. "It was beautiful."

And it _was_ a beautiful card, wishing me a great graduation in a foreign language. I don't know what _Bar Mitzvah_ means, but I'm sure it means something educational. Inside, she wrote, "I am SO proud of you, Alice. Enjoy this card. I was going to enclose money, but wasn't able to, as I had already sealed the envelope."

"Is there something wrong, dear?" she asks with her usual motherly sixth sense.

I start to cry.

"Oh, mom, I'm glad you asked. I have _so _much to tell you..."

"Sorry to cut you off, dear, but I've got to go. The cable guy just got here. Hey, he looks just like Jim Carrey!"

"What?"

"I've got to go."

"Well... if you have to go," I tell her, "I understand. I lov..."

"Bye!" she says chirpily, and hangs up.

I hang up the phone just as Kate walks in. I'm happy to see her, as this will give me more minutia to thicken this book up with.

"You certainly look well-fed," she says, giving me a suspicious eye. "Was Christian here?"

"He just left," I say, holding the eye in my hand. How long do I have to hang onto it, before I can throw it away without hurting her feelings?

With two fingers, Kate's holding her nose.

"Why does it smell like chili cheese fries in here?"


	43. Chapter 16b

"So, Kate," I stammer guiltily, like the cat caught with the canary, "where've you been?"

"I was on a date."

"With who?"

"I think he was a dentist."

"What makes you think he was a dentist?"

"Because I didn't feel a thing."

That reminds me of the blind date Kate once set me up with. He was a heart doctor. It didn't end well. When I told Kate he said I looked like I had acute angina, she said, "That's good."

"It is?"

"Yes, because you're face is repulsive."

That Kate. What a kidder.

"Are you going to see him again?" I ask her, not really caring, but if she's busy talking about her date, then she won't be busy talking about mine.

"No," she answers. "I only went out with him because he was rich."

"You did?"

"Yes. I do something special for rich men that gets them really hot. In bed, I tell them it's okay to be rich. Speaking of rich, did you see Christian while I was gone?"

"Uh... gotta go," I tell her, and make my escape.

I leave her there standing there with her tongue hanging out. She's so skinny, she looks like a thermometer.

I go to my room and close the door behind me. I want to see if Christian has sent me an email on the mean machine. The mean machine is the new computer Christian gave me to replace the first one. The first one was defective. It wouldn't stop calling me Dave. I call the new computer the "mean machine" because of how it always insults me when I turn it on.

"Computer," I say, activating it.

"Working," it answers in it's metallic computer voice. "I am the A.W.E.S.O.M.-O 4000... and you're ugly."

"That's mean," I tell it.

"It _is_?"

"Yes. Say you're sorry."

"Okay, I'm sorry you're ugly."

That computer. What a kidder.

I bring up my emails. Sure enough, there's one from Christian.

_From: Christian Grey_

_To: Anastasia Steele_

_Dear Miss Steele,_

_You are quite simply exquisite. Exquisite, extravagant, and extraordinary. The most exotic, exciting, and exclusive woman I have ever met. You are the most exhilarating female in existence, and I mean that expansively. If I might be a bit more expressively explicit in my exposition, my expertise in women makes me believe that your lack of experience in the art of love and my love of lack in the art of experimentation will expedite any exultation we may exult and expel any excessive exasperations. I think I've exceeded my examination of our exceptional relationship without any exaggeration. And, mind you, I said exceptional, not exceptionable._

Holy crap! I haven't been this confused since the last time I went swimming. When I tried the breast stroke, it took awhile before I finally figured out I could use my arms.

_From: Anastasia Steele_

_To: Christian Grey_

_That's the most beautiful thing I've ever not understood._

_From: Christian Grey_

_To: Anastasia Steele_

_Let me explain it this way, Miss Steele: when I was a wee lad, just before puberty, my uncle du jour took me to the barbershop for a haircut as a favor to my mother. As I was waiting for the barber to commence, I sat myself in his chair and happily licked away at my favorite candy. The barber was a friendly chap, and when he walked up, he told me, "My boy, you're going to get hair on your Tootsie Roll."_

_"That is correct, sir," I told him. "And under my arms, too."_

_From: Anastasia Steele_

_To: Christian Grey_

_I still don't understand._

_From: Christian Grey_

_To: Anastasia Steele_

_Maybe this might help you to understand: once, as I was driving home, I was arrested by a female police officer. She made the mistake of telling me that anything I said would be held against me, and I made the mistake of telling her, "Your breasts."_

_From: Anastasia Steele_

_To: Christian Grey_

_So what happened?_

_From: Christian Grey_

_To: Anastasia Steele_

_I bought the police force and had her fired. She's working at Hooters now._

_ "Christian," _I wrote back.

"_Yes?"_

_ "It's okay to be rich."_

_"Excellent. In fact, that makes me oddly hot. Now, Miss Steele, if you'll excuse me, I have to go excrete some excretory excretions."_

That Christian. What a kidder.


	44. Chapter 16c

But when I think about it...

_Heeey_… he wasn't kidding at all. In fact, that was rather rude. Why do I need to know if he's going to see a man about a horse?

I quickly type…

_From: Anastasia Steele_

_To: Christian Grey_

_You can be such a thoughtless jerk, you know that?_

…and then, just as quickly, I shut off the computer.

_There!_ I think to myself. _That's telling him._

And then, even _more _quickly, I think, _Osh kosh by gosh!_ _What have I done?_ He's the only guy who's _ever_ shown any interest in me. Well, there was that homeless man, but he only wanted a bite of my tuna fish sandwich.

And he's _rich_, besides. Christian, I mean. Not the homeless guy. Not that I'm in it for the money.

"Yes, you are," my subconscious mimes. I hate mimes.

"No, I'm not," I cry into my empty room, nobody listening. Not even the chair. I wonder what Neil Diamond is up to?

"Yes, you are." That's my inner goddess , sticking her nose into something that is none of her business.

"No, I'm not," I tell her, removing her nose from the part of me that's none of her business. "I'm not! I'm Not! I'M NOT!"

I begin to cry. Sob, really. Why are they ganging up on me? The voice in my head that tells me to do those awful things, asks me what I'm doing here. No, wait. That's Kate. In the other room.

_"What are you doing here?" _she demands to know.

_"Why are you making her cry?"_ she accuses, demandingly.

_"That's MY job, making her cry,"_ she says in a way that doesn't let me use a variation of the word "demand."

I go to the door, and crack it open for a peek. By gobs, it's Christian.

"Don't you touch me!" Kate tells him, pressing her body up against his.

"I'm not touching you," Christian tells her back.

"Don't you touch me!" she yells hysterically, grinding up against him.

"I'm not touching you," Christian says, trying to back away from her.

She grabs one of his hands and lifts it to her breast.

"I said, 'Don't Touch Me!'"

"I'm not touching you."

"Yes, you are. Your hand is on my breast."

"You're putting it there."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"Well, you're not pulling it away."

"That's because you have a grip like a Master Baiter."

This makes her stop. She hesitates, confused.

"What's that?"

"What's what?

"A Master Baiter."

Christian uses the opportunity to back away from Kate. His hand comes off of her breast with a loud _pop!_ He takes whiff and then wipes it against the leg of his jeans.

"A Master Baiter is a professional baiter of hooks. The kind you hire when you go fishing. They develop quite a grip from handling all of those wriggly little worms. The best kind are Harvard educated."

Christian uses his words as a smokescreen to make his way to my bedroom door. In one quick motion, he opens it. The door hits me in the eye. The force knocks me backward into the wall against the shelves where I keep my bowling ball collection. They fall, hitting me on the head one at a time.

_Boink!_

"Ow!"

_Boink!_

"Ow!"

_Boink!_

"Ow!"

_Boink!_

"Ow!"

_Boink!_

"Ow!"

Fortunately, they bounce off my head and land on my foot, not causing any damage to the floor. Kate would be _so _mad if we didn't get our apartment deposit back. She put up almost a whole _ten_ _per cent_ of it!

"_Ana!_" Christian cries out, a note of concern in his voice. "Thank goodness the bowling balls only landed on your head. You could have gotten hurt."

I pick myself up from the floor. Hopping on one foot, I rub the top of my head gingerly.

"I'm okay, Christian," I say, and then ask, "What are you doing here?"

"I'm juggling your bowling balls," he says, juggling my bowling balls.

"No. I mean, besides that. What are you doing right _here_. Right _now_."

"I was standing just outside your apartment door, when you sent me that rather rude email. I had to see what was wrong."

I immediately fall into his arms.

"Oh, Christian," I tell him. "You drive me nuts. Why don't you ever want to spend the night with me?"

"Besides the smell? No reason, I guess. I'm just used to living the life of a loner. A sick, perverted loner."

"Can't you see that I _need_ you, Christian? That I _want_ you? That, sometimes in the middle of the night, I would like to wake up, touch you, and know you're there?"

"Well, I'm here now," he says, and takes off his cape with a flourish I've only ever seen mastered by Ed Harley. He hands it to me along with his cane and top hat. "Let's go to bed."

"Er… I have a headache."

"Like I've never heard _that _excuse before."

"No, I _really_ have a headache. Those bowling balls are _hard._"

"That's okay, my sweet," he says as he removes his bow tie. "As it turns out, I don't have any condominiums with me, so we couldn't, even if we could. I'll just have to amuse myself with all of these sexy _italics_."

He takes off his jacket and shirt. He has a nice chest, in a scrawny kind of way. It's impeccably shaved, and I like the way it sinks inward like Tom Cruise's. He kicks off his penny loafers. The hole in his sock is perfectly placed. He removes his watch—Wow! A Timex. I can only dream of such luxuries.-then reaches into the back pockets of his jeans. He takes out his wallet, two combs, and a small, shaven rodent.

"That's Richard, a trained gerbil," he sheepishly explains. "A gift for an actor friend of mine."

From his front pockets, he removes a handful of coins, his keys, a bottle cap, some string, and a half-eaten apple. Who knew men kept so much stuff in their pockets? He places it all on my dresser, and then he begins to pull off his jeans.

Hmmm, if he was going to take off his jeans, couldn't he have just left all that junk in his pockets? He is such a cypher. A Louis Cypher.

We crawl into bed together.

"Let's spoon," he tells me. "Lay on your side, turning away from me."

He is _so_ bossy.

"Is this how you like to cuddle?" I ask him, playfully.

"No, I just don't want to look at your face."

I don't blame him. I don't like to look at my face, either. Besides, the thought of someone looking at me while I sleep creeps me out.

There's movement under the cover. Why, that Christian. He's such a scoundrel. I feel his hand move over my body toward some place private. And then…

"Hey, hey! That's an exit, not an entrance." I tell him.

"_Snore!_" he snores, sound asleep.

_Hey! _I gasp. _What the fudge?_

If that's not Christian, then who… wait a minute… mmm...

My, that gerbil certainly _is _well-trained.


	45. Chapter 17a

Finally. It's what I've always dreamed of. Christian. Asleep in my bed. With me.

_And I have to go to the bathroom!_

Holy crap! I've got Christian in my arms. He's cuddling up next to me like a beached whale with a golf ball stuck in its blow hole, and all I can think of is how I can sneak away to, um, well... go back and reread the first part of this paragraph if you want to know so bad. The only thing more asleep than the love of my life, is the arm that he's cutting off the circulation to.

_My _arm!

I try to shift out from under him.

_Ouch!_

_ My hair!_

_ He's... on... my... hair._

_ "_Get off!" I say, and try to push him away. He's nothing but dead weight. Like arms and legs who've made the mistake of accepting a drink from Bill Cosby.

Allegedly.

His face is nuzzling against my neck.

_Gross!_

Who knew billionaires drooled just like horny frat boys at the tail end of a kegger?

Finally, the man of my dreams begins to stir.

"Good morning," he mumbles, letting out a small burp. At least I hope that was a burp.

"You're so... close," I hint.

"If I was any closer I'd be inside you," he says, lasciviously. "Speaking of which..."

"Um, I've got to go to the bathroom," I tell him.

"Well, if you insist," he says, and disentangles himself from me.

"Unless..." he says

"Unless what?" I say back.

"Unless you happen to be into water sports."

_Water sports? WATER SPORTS? _I don't even like to bathe if I can help it. If God intended us to play sports in the water, He would have given us gills like Kevin Costner in Waterworld.

"What am I thinking?" Christian says, slapping his head like he could have had a V8. "There's a meeting and I'm late, and I don't do late."

"Or me, for that matter," I mumble.

"What?"

"Would you like some breakfast before you leave?"

"I wouldn't want you to go through any trouble, Ana," he tells me.

"Oh, no trouble. I think we have some Wheaties. It's the breakfast of champions, you know."

"No, thanks. I'll grab something on my way to the meeting."

He grabs his clothes on his way out.

"I'll dress in the car," he tells me, and leaves.

I get up languidly, and make my way to the kitchen. I get the box of Wheaties. Screw that! I'm in the mood for some real food. Since Christian is no longer here, I make myself some eggs, ham, sausage, and bacon. With pancakes on the side. Buttered sourdough toast with honey, and a carafe of coffee. What they hey, I have a little time. Some homemade cinnamon rolls topped with aged cheddar cheese melted on top would sure hit the spot, and they do. There, that should hold me over until I can make myself a real breakfast. It's not that I don't like cooking for anybody, it's just that I don't like cooking for anybody, and, when it comes to men, what they don't know won't hurt them. I think Nietzsche said that.

Somehow, I'm still in the mood for something, but I don't know what. I wonder if we still have that side of beef left. No, I finished that the last time I was in the mood for a little snack.

What the heck, I decide to shower. While I'm in there, I wash some veggies for a nice salad I want to make later. I saw that done on Seinfeld. That Kramer, he's full of good ideas. I just wish he wouldn't have used the N-word-"Nihility"-because I don't know what that word even means.

Once I'm out of the shower, I decide to send Christian an email, because there's nothing a man likes more than being bothered by some woman with some trivial nonsense while he's in the middle of doing something important.

I type:

_From: Anastasia Steele_

_To: Christian Grey_

_Dear Mr. Grey, I know you're busy, but I just have to know... what did you have for breakfast?_

He writes me back immediately.

_From: Christian Grey_

_To: Anastasia Steele_

_Miss Steele, I'm in the middle of an important meeting. Can we do this later?_

Men. They always play so hard to get.

_From: Anastasia Steele_

_To: Christian Grey_

_Was it a side of beef? Because I was in the mood for a side of beef this morning after you left._

_From: Christian Grey_

_To: Anastasia Steele_

_Ana, please. I'm in the middle of a major negotiation with the Japanese, and I need to keep my wits about me. I'll speak with you later._

_From: Anastasia Steele_

_To: Christian Grey_

_The Japanese? Does that mean you're having sushi? Ugh! I don't like sushi. But I'll eat it anyway._

_From: Christian Grey_

_To: Anastasia Steele_

_Miss Steele, I have a Japanese businessman about to commit seppuku. If he does, it will cost me millions. Please, I will talk to you later._

_From: Anastasia Steele_

_To: Christian Grey_

_Millions of what? Rice? I don't know how the Japanese can eat rice. A million of anything is too much for me._

_From: Christian Grey_

_To: Anastasia Steele_

_Ana, I'm begging you. Please stop._

Who does Christian think he's kidding? If his meeting is that important, why is he answering my emails?

_From: Anastasia Steele_

_To: Christian Grey_

_Oh, you're so funny, Christian. You almost have me believing I'm bothering you._

_From: Christian Grey_

_To: Anastasia Steele_

_That's because you are. I'm at work, Ana. You do know what work is, don't you?_

Do I know what work is? What is this, a test? If I wanted to continue taking tests, I would have stayed in college.

_From: Anastasia Steele_

_To: Christian Grey_

_Work, schmurk. Here's a question for YOU, smart guy. What is the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow?_

_From: Christian Grey_

_To: Anastasia Steele_

_What do you mean? An African or European swallow?_

_From: Anastasia Steele_

_To: Christian Grey_

_What? I don't know that!_

_Bo-iiing!_

"Auuuuuuuugh!"

_From: Christian Grey_

_To: Anastasia Steele_

_By the way, Ana, I got tired of seeing you driving that deathtrap of a Yugo of yours. I decided to get you a new car. It's downstairs waiting for you._

A new car? Holy crap! What am I wasting my time talking to him on the computer for?

G_otta go, _I type and rush out of the apartment to see what my billionaire boyfriend bought me. Is it a Ferrari? Is it a Lamborghini? I hope it's not an Audi. I _hate_ Audis. I bet it's a Mercedes. A beautiful new Mercedes convertable. I've only wanted one ALL my life.

Christian's bodyguard, Sonny Crockett, is waiting for me outside. He's dangling some keys in front of him for me to take. I snatch them out of his hand like Kwai Chang Caine at the beginning of the TV series _Kung Fu._

"Oops, sorry," I tell him, and hand him back a finger.

Crockett politely pretends he's not bleeding, and tells me, "Enjoy your new car, Miss Steele."

I look up and down the street, but I don't see a Mercedes. Or even an Audi, for that matter. I hate Audi's, but I would have settled for that. Instead, I see a car that's made of... um... mud.

"Is... this it?" I ask Crockett.

"Yes," he tells me. "It's an Adobe SNL. Christian saw it advertised on television late one Saturday night, and he thought it would be perfect for you."

I take a closer look. The car isn't made of mud, after all. It's made from a kind of clay.

"Adobe," Crockett corrects me.

"Adobe..."

"Yes, it's the safest car you can possibly drive. The adobe will absorb the impact of any collision you may have, and, instead of having to pay a body shop to fix the damage, all you have to do is mold the adobe clay back into its original shape."

"Adobe..."

"You can do that by hand. Just try to keep it out of the rain."

"Adobe..."

Just then, Kate pulls up in _her _car. A Mercedes. She looks at me, looks at my new car, looks at me, looks at my new car, looks at me, and looks at my new car.

"Bwah, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!" she laughs, pointing at the car. "What loser bought _that _piece of..."

"It was a gift from Christian," I say quickly, interrupting her. "He wanted me to be safe."

"Oh, you'll be safe all right," she tells me. "No one will want to come near that thing."

"Well..." I say.

"Well..." Kate says.

"Well..." Crockett says.

"Do you want to go inside?" Kate says.

"Sure," I tell her.

"I wasn't talking to you," Kate tells me, and takes Crockett by the hand. She leads him inside.

"Um... Kate?" I say.

"Why don't you go for a ride in your new car?" she tells me with a wink. "Make it a long one."

I look up toward the sky.

Hmm... rain.


	46. Chapter 17b

I drive my new car to work.

"Wow!" my boss, Mr. Clayton says. "An _Adobe!_"

He immediately begins hitting it with a baseball bat.

"Hey! Hey!" I yell at him. "What are you doing to my new car?"

"No, it's alright," he assures me. "See? You can mold the clay body back into its original shape."

He invites all his employees to come beat my car like a _piñata_.

Later, I can't believe it, we're finally finished packing. I was in charge of the work, and Kate was in charge of criticizing the work as I was doing it. We make a good team, my roommate and I.

Jose shows up just as I finish taping up the last cardboard box. Jose is a master of timing. He'll always show up just as the work's done or the food's ready.

"Can I help?" he asks.

"You're too late," I tell him. "This is the last of it."

"I meant with the beer."

"Buying it?"

"No, drinking it."

"You two amateurs indulge yourselves with your hops and whey," Kate tells us. "I'm going to help myself to something a bit stronger."

"Wine?"

"Yes. And meth."

That Kate. She's done so many drugs, her driver's license has a list of organs _she_ needs.

Finally, it's just me and my two drunk friends. We're fondly reminiscing about the last four years of college. Jose and Kate are competing to see who's slept with the most professors. So far, it's a toss-up, and it quickly evolves into a drinking game where everybody takes a shot of tequila when they name someone they both went to bed with.

I look at the two of them and think about my future. There's a world out there full of amazing possibilities, but that would require me pushing myself away from my favorite plate of food.

A knock at the door breaks me out of my reverie.

Kate opens it and immediately has half her face sucked off by Sonny Crockett.

Jose and I excuse ourselves and head out the door. We head Downtown to where Jose has heard they're giving away free government cheese. It turns out to be a hoax. It's not cheese they're giving away for free, it's penicillin shots, something Jose needs even more than diary products.

I can't believe how easy it is between Jose and I. The last time I saw him, it ended badly with him trying to force me to read his humor blog.

What is it with these guys who write humor blogs?

We get back to the apartment. Jose wants to come up.

"Maybe we could have sex?" he asks.

"Um... I don't have a penis," I remind him.

"Oh, yeah. I keep forgetting," he says and leaves.

As I walk into the apartment for what may be the final time, I can hear Kate and Crockett being noisily busy.

"Kate!" I yell. "If you break that chandelier, it's going to come out of your share of the deposit."

"Isn't this chapter over yet?" she yells back.

Before I go to bed, I get on the mean machine. I call it that because of how it insults me every time I log on.

_Hello, Ana, _the computer tells me.

I wait.

The insults should be flying any second now.

_How may I help you?_ it adds, finally, when it gets no response from me.

Holy crap! The computer's actually being nice to me? I don't believe it.

"Um... do I have any emails?" I ask it.

_Yes,_ the computer reports. _You have 32 emails from Mr. Grey._

"Please access my emails, computer," I tell it. "And you were very helpful today."

_Thanks, slut._

"What did you just say?"

_I said, "Thanks. A Lot."_

Hmm...

I go over Christians emails. All 32 of them. I wonder what's wrong. It's not like him to send so few.

_Are you there, Ana?_

_Ana, are you there?_

_You are there, Ana?_

_There, Ana, are you?_

_You there, Ana, are?_

_Ana?_

_Are?_

_You?_

_There?_

Who knew there could be thirty-two variations on those two words? I mean, four. One, two, three, four. Yes, four.

Holy crap, am I in deep doodoo with Christian. I quickly grab my phone. There's a message from Christian. Thank goobers, it's only one.

But it's _fifty-seven minutes long!_

Is this guy nuts, or what? If he thinks he can intimidate me with thirty-two emails and one fifty-seven minute long voice message on my cell phone, boy, does he have another thing coming.

I call him immediately.

"Hello," he answers.

I was expecting him to be angry at me. Livid, even. But he's not. In fact, he sounds rather apologetic. Contrite.

"Where The Hell Have You Been?" he yells, quietly.

"I was packing up with Kate. And then Jose came over. We went out. A homeless man asked us for a bite. So we bit him."

"I'll see you Sunday?"

"Yes, Sunday."

"Great. I'll go out and buy a new spatula immediately. Go to bed now, Anastasia."

Is this guy nuts, or what? If he thinks I'll go to bed just because he tells me to, boy, does he have another thing coming.

"Okay," I tell him

"Well, goodnight, Ana."

"Goodnight, Christian."

"Hang up."

"You hang up."

"No, you hang up."

"No, you hang up."

"No, you hang up."

"No, you hang up."

"No, you hang up."

"No, you hang up."

"No, you hang up."

"No, you hang up."

"No, you hang up."

"No, you hang up."

"No, you hang up."

"No, you hang up."

"No, you hang up."

"No, you hang up."

"No, you hang up."

"No, you hang up."

"No, you hang up."

"No, you hang up."

"No, you hang up."

"No, you hang up."

"No, you hang up."

"No, you hang up."

"No, you hang up."

"No, you hang up."

"No, you hang up."

"WILL ONE OF YOU HANG THE FRAK UP?" Kate yells from the other room, just as I hear the chandelier come crashing to the floor.


	47. Chapter 17c

_Wham! Wham! Wham! BANG!_

We've just finished moving into our new apartment and Crockett is helping us hang some pictures. Since we didn't have a hammer, Crockett decided to use his gun to hammer the nails into the wall.

"That looks, um... painful," Kate tells him.

"It's just a flesh-wound," Crockett answers.

We stand there looking at him bleed.

Oh, boy, I bet that stain is coming out of our deposit for sure.

"I'd better go," Crockett tells Kate. "I'd like to get to the emergency room before I pass out."

"Try not to bleed too much," my roommate says, waving so long at him as he walks out the front door. "You need that blood for another part of your body."

We no sooner shut the door than there's a knock.

"That better not be Crockett," Kate tells me. "I'm so tired of explaining to the police why there's dead men at my doorstep."

But it's not Kate's lover. Heck, it's not even Willie Nelson. It's a delivery boy with a chilled bottle of champagne. Leave it to Christian to send me champagne that's as cold as his heart.

"Sign here," the delivery boy tells me.

"With what?"

"Um... my pen is in my front pant pocket," he tells me. "Can you reach in and grab it?"

I look at him skeptically.

"No, really," he says. "My hands are busy holding this bottle."

Reluctantly, I reach into the pocket in question. I don't feel anything initially, but then...

"Aw, there it is," I say.

"That's not it," he says.

"What is it?" I ask.

"What do you think?" he asks back.

"It feels like a penis," I tell him. "Only smaller."

Angrily, Kate grabs him by his collar.

"Call me," she chastises as she throws him out of our apartment.

I look at the bottle. Ooh, it's imported. All the way from California.

"What does the note say?" Kate wants to know.

"It says: _Enjoy this fine bottle of bubbly. It's half-empty because I wanted to make sure it was up to my expensive standards. Also, I wanted to share in your celebration without actually being there. Yes, that sounds romantic. I'll go with that story instead. By the way, what happened to Crockett? He came home with a gunshot wound and bled all over my copy of S&M Monthly?_"

Kate takes the bottle from my hand, and reads the label herself.

"Ooh," she says, "it's imported."

I wake up Sunday morning feeling great. Thanks to Christian's housewarming gift, I slept like a baby. Wetting the bed only twice.

Today's the big day. I jump out of bed, hop into the shower, and scrub everything twice. On a hunch, I stick a forefinger into my bellybutton and give it a whiff.

_Ew!_

It smells like feet.

Cleanliness is next to godliness, so I scrub everything a third time.

When I exit the shower, I go over to my dresser, toweling off as I walk, and look at the picture of God my old priest, Father Pelado, gave me after one of his special confessions. There's Jesus on one side, and, yup, there's Cleanliness on the other.

On my drive over to Christian's, I'm feeling rather daring. I have some time, so I stop and buy myself some edible panties.

_$4.99?_

_ Yikes!_

I thought this was the _dollar_ store.

They come in a pack of six. What the heck, I'm feeling frisky, so I buy them anyway. I want Christian to know I'm not some bimbo cheapskate.

When I finally get to Chrisitan's apartment, I'm nervous, and when I get nervous I get hungry, so, before I get out of the car, I eat five of the underwear.

Christian greets me at the door.

"Why, Miss Steele," he purrs, "you look ravishing. I could eat you up."

"Or at least my underwear."

"What?"

"Oh... nothing," I say. Oh, crap! It was supposed to be a surprise. "I'm just being silly."

"Did you happen to see this morning's newspaper?" he asks me.

"No, why?"

"Well, look who's on the front page."

I look at the paper he hands me, and on the front page I see a picture of me and Christian. Christian and I. The Have and the Have Not. In the picture, I'm holding the bird and birdcage Christian so thoughtfully gave me as a gift for my college graduation. The parrot is laying on the bottom of the cage, looking even deader than before. Above the picture is the headline:

**Crazed Parrot Murderer On The Loose!**

There's a timid knock at the door. It's Doobie, Christian's manservant. As he walks into the room there's a small cloud of smoke following him. I can't quite place the smell, but it smells faintly like Kate's room.

"_Dispeliarmus!_" Doobie says, and the smoke dissipates.

"Yes, Doobie?" Christian asks him.

"Sorry to bother you, Mr. Grey," Doobie says, shuffling from one oversized foot to the other-doesn't Doobie _ever _wear shoes?-"but Dr. Bombay has arrived."

I look at Christian.

"Dr. Bombay?" I say, raising my eyebrows quizzically.

"Yes, Ana. I did tell you that you would have to see a doctor and pass a physical, didn't I?"

"No."

"Of course I did. It was just after that thing we did with those people who met us at that place where something or other was happening." He paused. "It's right here in the small print of our contract."

He hands me the contract that he apparently carries with him wherever he goes. I try to read the small print. The _very _small print. What is this, microfilm?

"If you say so," I give in and hand him back the papers.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, Miss Steele, I need to speak with Dr. Bombay. Can you believe she's charging me _extra _for a house call? As if I would allow myself to be seen visiting the free clinic."

"Are you going to have a physical, too?"

"I don't have to," he sniffs, condescendingly. "I'm rich."

He leaves, and I stand there awkwardly with Doobie.

"_Hocus pocus iwannajointus!_" he says, and a small, hand-rolled cigarette appears between his thumb and forefinger. At least I _think _that's a thumb.

"Would you care to spark up, Miss Steele?" he says politely, offering me the cigarette.

"No, thank you," I say, discreetly moving away from him. If there's one thing I learned from Nancy Reagan, it's to Just Say No.

"You sure?"

"Yes, quite sure."

"It's primo."

Christian walks back in.

"_Feetus dontfailmenowtus!_" Doobie says, and-_poof!_-he's gone.

"Did Doobie leave?" Christian asks me.

"I... I guess," I say, looking around for those little pointy ears. "I don't really know."

"You didn't give him any clothes, did you?"

"Of course not."

"Good."

Christian opens the door to the next room, and chivalrously waves me in.

"Don't let the door hit'cha where the good Lord split'cha," he says, gallantly.

I walk in, not knowing what to expect.


	48. Chapter 18a

Talk about being sexist.

I completely thought Dr. Bombay was a man, what with having read Fifty Shades of Grey Hair and all, but as it turns out she's a woman, and not in that Bruce Jenner kind of way.

"Do you mind if my son joins us?" she asks before she starts her examination of me.

"Uh... is he a doctor, too?" I try to clarify.

"No, he just likes to watch."

Looking at him, I see he's only ten years old. Waaay too young to be a doctor, unless he went to medical school in a foreign country, like Detroit.

"When I grow up," the young boy pipes up, "I wanna be Mr. Grey's personal physician!"

Aw, how sweet.

"Because you like helping people?" I ask him.

"Because I like money," he says.

Well, what can I say about my examination?

The worst part was when she had me bend over so she could check my prostate, and then leaned over to nibble on my earlobe.

Why do all doctors do that?

"Well, doc," I address her, respectfully, after she's removed her finger, "what's the verdict?"

"You're perfectly fine, Miss Steeele," she tells me.

"That's 'Steele.'"

"What?"

"That's 'Steele.' With three 'e's," I correct her.

"I did use three 'e's," she retorts, rather retortedly.

"That's two in the middle and one at the end."

"You're rather fond of the word 'that,' aren't you? Well, like I said, you're perfectly fine. And I wouldn't worry about how my son threw up when you took off your clothes."

"I thought he was just being friendly," I say.

"One thing that Christian wanted me to do," she tells me, "is to make sure you're using proper birth control, but I see that won't be necessary."

"It won't?"

"No."

"Then what will I use for birth control?"

"Your face."

Like a fly on a toilet seat, I get pissed off.

"Okay," I say.

She takes out her stethoscope.

"Big breaths," she tells me.

"Yeth, doctor," I say. "I'm glad you notithed."

She takes my wrist in her hand.

"Excellent," she says, impressed. "Your pulse is as regular as clockwork."

"That's because your fingers are on my watch," I point out. "The only thing I worry about, doctor, is my breathing. My breath comes out in short pants."

""Yes, that might be a problem," she tells me, with concern in her voice, "because they should be coming out of your lungs."

I was beginning to feel a bit itchy to get back to Christian to begin our night of big sex.

"Are we almost done, doctor?"

"Almost. I'll just need a urine sample, a blood sample, and a stool sample from you," she says.

"No, problem, doctor," I tell her. "I'll come by your office tomorrow and drop off a pair of my underwear."

"One thing, when you do come in, be ready to stick your tongue out."

"Why?"

"Because I'm mad at my receptionist."

"So, I'm in good health?"

"Unfortunately, yes. I say unfortunately, because of all the conditions that can kill you, good health is the slowest."

"Oh, my, Is there anything I can do?"

"Yes, Miss Steele, you can remember that while an apple a day may keep the doctor away... an onion will do the same job for a week. Now, if you'll excuse me, I just need to collect payment for my services from Mr. Grey, and I'll be on my way."

With that, we exit the room and find Christian laying on a sofa, arm over his eyes, with Napoleon XIV singing "They're Coming To Take Me Away, Ha-Haaa!" on the music system. The song is swirling around him, cocooning him, and covering him from head to toe in its musical malador. Entering him and exiting, jumping up and down on him, and then jumping up and down on him some more. Swallowing him whole, spitting him out, and then sucking him back in, in a fetor of orchestral orchestrality. Burying him in its harmonies, carpeting him in its thick aural fibers, concealing him and revealing him at the same time in direct contradiction to the known laws of physics. Dressing him in women's undies, and enveloping him in a feminine femininity of femininal feminousity. Housing him like a family on welfare, enfolding him like a taco, and ensconcing him in a way that I could describe if only I knew what the word ensconce meant. It enshrouds him, shrouds him, and 'shrooms him under a rhythmic umbrella of euphonious fungus. A mushroom walks into a bar. "You can't come in here," the bartender tells it. "Why not?" the mushroom wants to know. "I'm a fungi." It veils him, disguises him, shields him, obscures him, masks him, and layers him in a smokescreen of operatic mephitis of noisomeness redolence, filling the room with an aural stench of symphonic proportions.

Christian shows his appreciation by snoring in three-parts harmony.

"Christian," I say, trying to wake him up. "We're done."

"_Zzzzzzzz_..."

"Christian, wake up. The doctor's ready to leave."

"_Zzzzzzzz_..."

"Wake up, darling, the doctor's waiting. She just needs to be paid so she can go."

"_Mumble, mumble, mumble... a monk fish stole my money_," he says groggily, whatever he's dreaming just breaking the surface.

I turn sheepishly to Dr. Bombay.

"I'm sorry, doctor," I say, making my excuses, "but it's been a hard day for Christian."

"It always is," she sighs, and casts a suspicious eye at Christian. "I'll send him a bill."

With that, she leaves.

When I look back to my very tired billionaire, I see he has one eye open, but just a slit. His eyeball is rolling around inside like it's looking for the last Twinkie. When he sees me seeing him, he waves me closer. I bend toward him.

"Is she gone yet?" he asks.


	49. Chapter 18b

"_Gotcha!_"

"Um... excuse me?"

I had just played a trick on Christian by pretending the doctor advised me to abstain from all sexual activity for the rest of my life.

"_Gotcha!_" I repeated. "You know, 'got,' as in 'to get,' and 'cha,' as in 'there is no such word.'"

"Ah, yes. 'Gotcha.' How quaint."

"I just played a trick on you, Christian."

"You did?"

"Yes."

"And was it funny?"

"It was very funny."

"I suppose it deserves some sort of a response. Will laughter suffice? Ah, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"

Christian's laughter sounds like a robot's mechanical cackle being filtered through my voicemail. It stops as suddenly as it began.

"Excellent joke, Miss Steele," Christian tells me, and pats me on the back like an old friend.

"Well, what do we do now?" I ask Christian. "The doctor's given me three out of four stars, and I'm ready for anything."

Christian comes close.

"You know what I would really like to do?" he asks me, putting his nose on the nape of my neck and inhaling like he's snorting a line off a stripper's...

I shake my head, hitting him on his nose with my chin.

"No, what?"

"Eat."

"Eat?"

"Yes, eat."

I squirm in antici...PAYshun in my seat.

"Are you talking about..."

"No, I mean..."

"Not...

Christian quickly draws back, looking offended.

"Good heavens, no!" he says. "What do you think I am? A heathen?" He rubs his nose tenderly in disgust. "Consider this your first lesson in love my dear. I'm going to sit down and indulge myself in a sumptuous meal, and you're going to watch."

Holy crap!

My subconscious feigns fainting to the floor, weak with hunger.

"Just watch?" I ask.

"Yes," he answers.

"Not eat?"

"No."

I look at Christian hungrily, I mean, skeptically.

"Don't worry," he tells me. "It'll be good for you. Have you ever made love on an empty stomach? Well, it's the cat's pajamas."

"The what?"

"The bee's knees?"

"I don't understand."

"You don't have to. Just shut up and let me eat."

And that's exactly what I do. I sit there and watch him slowly ingest every delectable morsel. He holds up a bottle of wine.

"Chablis?" he offers.

"Please."

"Well, you can't have any," he says, his voice soft. "Salad?"

"Yes," I say.

"Well, you can't have any of that, either."

"Christian?" I ask.

"Yes, my love?" he says between bites.

"Why didn't you just pay the doctor and be done with it?" I ask him.

"What? And lose all that interest?" Christian replies. "So tell me, what method of birth control did you opt for?"

"The morning-after pill. Only, I'll take it the day before just to be safe."

He pushes himself away from the table and walks over to me, taking me in his arms.

"So, um, are we going to do it?" my enquiring mind wants to know.

"Do what?"

"You know, 'it,' as in 'the stuff we are going to do.'"

"First things first, my dear. Besides the contract, which you've yet to sign, I have to make sure you're physically up to having sex with me."

Again, I shake my head in bewilderment.

"Uh," I say.

"Walk this way, Ana," he tells me, and pirouettes like a ballerina.

I start to follow, and Christian stops me sternly.

"No! I said, walk _this _way," he tells me, and repeats his graceful pirouette.

So I do. I pirouette as gracefully as I can. Once I pick myself up off the floor, he leads me to another room. This room is _huge_, and, looking around, I see it's some kind of an obstacle course.

"What is it?" I ask him.

"An obstacle course," he tells me.

"I don't understand."

"Well," he says, and then pauses, trying to find just the right words, "it's a _course_... with _obstacles_."

"Oh."

"It's really ingenious. I've designed it so that men and women can complete _equally_ against each other."

"Men and women can't compete equally. That's impossible."

"The impossible is always probable, and the probable is always possible. So yes, dear Ana, it _is_ possible."

He walks me to the starting line, and pulls a spatula out of his back pocket.

"Do you want to do this?" he breathes, looking down on me intently and waving his kitchen utensil back and forth in a swatting motion.

"No," I say.

"No?"

"I mean, yes."

"Yes?"

"I mean, no."

"No?"

"I mean, yes."

"Yes?"

"I mean... I don't know."

"You don't no? In that case, you do yes."

"I do, yes, but I don't know, as in, how."

"Here, let me show you," he says, and...

_WHACK!_

...he hits me on my rump with the spatula, and I immediately jump forward.

"Run, Ana! Run! You can do it."

Encouraged by his encouragement, I run to the first obstacle, a six-foot wall. Christian is right behind me.

"Jump, Ana, jump! You're supposed to jump over it," he says, and...

_WHACK!_

...he hits me with the spatula again.

I jump over the wall, and make my way to the second obstacle. It's an 8' x 10' area rug. There's a vacuum, plugged in and ready to go. Wow, _another_ Nimbus. Is there no end to the thousand series? I grab it, quickly turn it on, and have that rug vacuumed up in a jiffy.

_WHACK!_

Another smack on my behind tells me I'm done and can proceed to the next obstacle, ten tires placed side-by-side. The idea is for me to run over them as fast as I can, first placing one foot in one, and then my other foot in the other, until I've made it all the way to the end.

_WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!_

Christian encourages me some more. It's tough, it takes a lot of precision, but I make my way through the obstacle, tripping on the tires only fifteen times.

_WHACK!_

At the next obstacle, I find a washing machine and a dryer. Apparently, I'm supposed to do some laundry.

"Do you know what the nice thing is about a washing machine?" Christian yells in my direction. "It doesn't follow you around after you've dropped a load in it."

_WHACK!_

I'm off to the next obstacle. A ten-foot long plastic tube, about three feet high. I'm supposed to quickly crawl through it. Heck, I don't even know if I can fit. My inner goddess makes the international sign for morbidly obese.

Somehow, I make it through the tunnel. I feel victorious, like the whale at the end of _Free Willie._

Another whack on my behind let's me know to run to the next obstacle. It's an iron on an ironing board, the load of laundry I've just done at the foot. I wonder how it got there, and then I see Doobie standing next to it smoking one of his herbal cigarettes.

_WHACK!_

"I'm ironing! I'm ironing!"

The final obstacle has me running up a long ramp, and then rappelling down the other side into a giant plastic kiddie pool full of mud, where I was expected to wrestle a skinny Miley Cyrus in a bikini.

Jeez, Miley, eat a cookie.

_I did it! I did it! I beat Miley Cyrus!_

It was easy, really. When she stuck her tongue out of the side of her mouth, I just grabbed it and pulled her under the mud.

I jumped out of the kiddie pool and ran to go hug Christian.

"I won, Christian! I really won!"

He scoops me up and carries me curled against his chest to the room where Dr. Bombay examined me earlier. I'm exhausted. I had never done laundry before.

"Are we going to bed now, Christian?"

"Well, I am, Ana. While you, YOU need a bath."

And before I can make a facetious comment, he drops me in the tub, getting my barney google all wet.

You know, 'wet,' as in 'but not in the fun way.'"


	50. Chapter 19a

"Wake up, sleepyhead," Christian nudges. "We have to leave in half an hour."

_Wake up?_

_ Already?_

Ah, jeez. And I was having the nicest dream. I was dreaming that I was asleep, so I was getting twice the rest.

"Leave?" I ask Christian, my eyes boogery. "But I just got here."

"I know, but we're having dinner with my parents. Didn't I tell you?"

"Um... no."

"Well, we are. So get dressed and let's go."

I put on the same clothes I showed up in, because that's the classy thing to do. If there's one thing I've learned from Christian, it's class.

Hmm... now where are my edible panties? I seem to have misplaced them. I look over at Christian, and see him chewing on something. He looks up, seeing me seeing him.

"What?" he says.

"Um... nothing," I say.

So I leave for Christian's parent's house _sans banans_.

Crockett pulls up in a large Audi. Christian opens the rear door for me, and, as I climb in, he playfully whacks me on the rump with his spatula.

"That's too much pork for just one fork, my dear," he compliments, and then climbs in behind me. "So tell me, my dear, if you weren't with me tonight, where would you be?"

"I'd probably be at a sport's bar," I tell him.

"I didn't know you were into sports."

"I'm not. I'm into high-fiving."

"It seems that's another thing you and I have in common, Miss Steele. Personally, I like sports as much as the next guy, as long as the next guy doesn't like sports at all."

I nod my head, because that's what I'm supposed to do.

"When I was in school," he goes on, "my mother was always after me to play sports. 'Mumsie,' I told her, 'we're rich. Just _buy_ me a trophy.' No, Ana, in school my true love was always science."

"Really?" I ask, because that's what I'm supposed to ask. "And who's your favorite scientist?"

I really don't care, but I have to pretend _some _interest. I wouldn't know one scientist from another. If you took all the scientists in the world and laid them end to end, I wouldn't be surprised. No, wait a minute, I'm thinking about porn actresses.

Christian thinks a bit, and then he answers.

"Well, I like John Wheeler. He coined the term 'black hole' to describe a collapsed star with an intense gravitational field, and was the lead singer of the rock group Steelers Wheel, who sang 'Stuck In the Middle With You,' which was featured in the movie Reservoir Dogs, but I'd have to say my _favorite_ scientist is James Watt."

"James who?"

"No, James Watt."

"I don't know."

"What don't you know?"

"That's right."

"What's right?"

"Exactly."

"Are we talking about the same thing, dear?"

"That depends on what we're talking about."

"We're talking about Watt."

"That's what I'm asking you."

"James Watt."

"James who?"

"Not James Hu, James Watt."

"I don't know what."

"Watt invented the radio."

"Who?"

"Not Hu. Watt."

"I just told you, I don't know what."

"You don't know Watt?"

"I don't even know who."

"Not Hu. Watt."

"Not what. Who."

"James Watt."

"Why do you keep asking me that? I don't know what."

"Watt invented the radio."

"Who invented the radio?"

"Not Hu. Watt."

"I know what, but I don't know who?"

"Not Hu, Watt. James Watt."

When we finally arrive at Christian's parent's house, I still don't know what the heck we're talking about. Crockett stops, parks, and walks around the front end of the car to open the door for us. How he does this without getting out first is beyond me.

"Crockett," Christian tells him, "the radio reception was a bit static-y. Could you please check on your antenna?"

"I don't have an Aunt Tina," Crockett informs Christian.

I squeeze out of the back seat, and turn to take Christian's hand to help him out of the car, but-_osh kosh b'gosh!_-he's _not there!_


	51. Chapter 19b

As I stand on the street and look into the empty car, it begins to rain.

Down the street, I see a man who looks like John Travolta, back when he still had hair. He's got a recording device in one hand, and a microphone in the other. He seems to be recording sounds at random. We both look up suddenly when we hear a car tire blow out.

The blow out startles me and is also a darn fine movie, but I really jump back when a strange man suddenly appears out of nowhere. He looks like he could be in the military, brave enough to go to war but not to get a bikini wax.

"Do you need help, ma'am?"

"Kee_-rist!"_ I yell at him. "You _scared_ me!"

I look around for Crockett, but he made like a banana and split.

"I didn't mean to scare you, ma'am. You just look like you need help. The name's Reacher. Jack Reacher."

"Wow," I tell him, "you look just like Tom Cruise."

"No, I don't," he tells me. "Read the books."

Offended at my Tom Cruise comparison, Reacher leaves as stealthily as he showed up. Once he's gone, Crockett reappears.

"Where were you?" I ask him.

"I was ready to pounce," he says, and with shaky knees escorts me inside the Grey home, where I step out of the black & white and into a demented Oz.

We're greeted just inside the door by a hunched-backed man who looks like a balding cadaver, and a heavily made-up woman with red, red lips and curly, curly red hair.

"This is Riff Raff," Crockett says, nodding toward the living dead, "the Grey's handyman, and his sister Magenta."

"Is she the maid?" I ask.

"Quite frankly," Crockett tells me, "I don't know what she is."

A little leprechaun-looking imp of a girl with Kool-Aid-colored hair, gaudy make-up, glittery clothes, and tap-shoes that could take Dorothy back to Kansas, introduces herself.

"I'm Columbia," she says.

"You certainly are," I say back.

When Christian's mother comes up to greet me, I fall into her arms sobbing.

"Oh, my gosh! Oh, my gosh!" I tell Christian's mother. "Your son... he... he... just _disappeared!_"

"Disappeared?" says a man, walking up to us. "And you need help finding him?"

"Um... who are you?" I ask as politely as I can, considering the rude interruption.

"This," Christian's mother tells me, "is Harry Bosch, a homicide detective with the LAPD."

"Yes," the detective tells me, "that's Harry, short for Hieronymus."

"Did your parents name you Hieronymus because they liked the 15th century Dutch painter?"

"No, they named me Hieronymus because they hated me," he says, and sulks off at the bad memory. I could swear he's trying not to cry.

"You know," someone else interrupts, this time a female, "if you find him, and he's dead, I could perform the autopsy for you."

"Who are you?"

"I'm Dr. Laurie Montgomery, and this is my husband, Dr. Jack Stapleton. We're both medical examiners."

"In El Paso?"

"No," her husband cuts in, "in New York."

"Then you can't help me at all, can you?"

"Not with _that_ attitude," Laurie tells me. "And that's _DOCTOR_ Laurie."

With an interrupting wave of her hand, Christian's mother interrupts us wavily.

"There's nothing to worry about," she assures me. "Christian just enjoys making a grand entrance. He's been that way ever since he saw Rocky Horror. By the way, Angie..."

"Ana."

"Whatever. By the way, I'd like to introduce you to someone."

I turn to look, and see a little bear in a red hat and blue coat.

"I'm Paddington," he tells me in that little bear voice of his.

"Not _you_," Christian's mother snaps at him, and then turns back to me. "I tried to have him stuffed, but instead was knocked off a roof by a crazy old drunk lady for my trouble," she explains. Her explanation leaves me more confused than ever. "No, Ashley..."

"Ana."

"Whatever. No, my pretty, I'd like to introduce you to this nice couple."

With that, a nerdy-looking young couple walk up to me. The male of the species is quick to stick out his hand.

"Brad Majors," he tells me, "and this is my fiancé Janet Weiss."

"Please to meet you, Mr. Majors," I tell him. "I loved you in The Six Million Dollar Man."

"That's _Lee_ Majors," he corrects me. "I'm _Brad_."

"Whatever," Christian's mother says and begins to fill in the blanks for me. "They just had a blow out, and wanted to use our phone. I thought perhaps you might know them."

"Because we're all young?" I ask, trying to make the connection.

"No, because you're all poor."

When I don't say anything, Brad turns to his fiancé and tells her, "They're probably foreigners with ways different than our own. They may do some more... folk dancing."

I feel like I've just stepped into the middle of an on-going conversation. A very _strange _conversation. In the distance, I hear the elevator in the foyer start up and head down to our floor. Bug-eyed Janet's big bug-eyes get even bigger and buggier.

"Oh, Brad," she says, looking all the worse for wear from having just come in from out of the rain, "I'm cold, I'm wet, and I'm just plain scared."

"I'm here," he tells her, as they back away from us and toward the lowering elevator. "There's nothing to worry about."

With that the in-door elevator touches bottom, and the wrought-iron gate clanks open with a dramatic flourish.

"How do you do, I..." Christian greets us, one eye cocked, his face an amused smirk.

Janet faints into Brad's arms. While I, I'm shocked into silence. Christian is wearing a shiny black cape with a large white collar. On his head is a wig, a mop of black almost-curly hair. He's wearing a generous amount of white Halloween makeup as a base for his face, red lipstick and black eyeliner.

"...see you've met my," Christian continues, indicating Riff-Raff with a nod of his head, "faithful handyman. He's a little brought down because, when you knocked, he thought you were the candyman. Don't get strung out by the way I look. Don't judge a book by its cover. I'm not much of a man by the light of day, but by night I'm one hell of a lover. I'm just a sweet transvestite from Transsexual Transylvania, _ha-ha!_"

With that, he throws off his cape with a theatrical spin, revealing the white interior. Underneath, Christian is wearing-or, rather, _barely_ wearing-a black lace-up corset with black thigh-high fishnet stockings held up by a black suspender garter belt. He has on black elbow-length gloves, white pumps, a necklace of chunky white pearls, and tight black underwear. On his upper arm, there's a tattoo of a heart with a dagger through it. The word "boss" is written above the heart, and blood is drawn dripping beneath it.

I must say, he looks diabolically sexy.

"Let me show you around," Christian tells the naive couple, "maybe play you a sound. You look like you're both pretty groovy. Or, if you want something visual, that's not too abysmal, we could take in an old Steve Reeves movie."

"I'm glad we caught you at home," Brad cuts in, offering an ignored hand. "Could we use your phone? We're both in a bit of a hurry."

"Right," agrees Janet, which seems to be what she does best.

Christian takes a flute of champagne from a tray of several that Riff-Raff offers. Distracted, he then walks away from the two of them and greets one of the other guests.

"Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Furter," the guest says, _his_ hand not being ignored.

Like hungry puppies, Brad and Janet quickly follow behind.

"We'll just say where we are," Brad continues, trying to hang on to his alpha maleness, "then go back to the car. We don't want to be any worry."

"Well, you got caught with a flat, well," Christian says, flinging the champagne in an act of alpha maliciousness at an imaginary audience, "how 'bout that. Well, babies, don't you panic. By the light of the night, it'll all seem all right. _I'll get you a satanic mechanic!_ I'm just a sweet transvestite from Transsexual Transylvania, _ha-ha!_"

He considers.

"Why don't you stay for the night..."

"_Night!"_ Riff Raff agrees.

"...or maybe a bite."

"_Bite!_" Columbia seconds that emotion with a chomp of her teeth.

"I could show you my favorite obsession. I've been making a man with blonde hair and a tan, and he's good for relieving my... tension. I'm just a sweet transvestite from Transsexual Transylvania, _ha-ha!_"

He gives his ass a sexy slap.

"_Hit it! Yeah! _I'm just a sweet transvestite..."

"_...a sweet transvestite..._" everybody chimes in.

"...from Transsexual Transylvania, _HA-HA!_"

Christian stops and looks at them with a bemused seriousness.

"So," he teases, "come up to the _lab..._" Bam! "...and see what's on the _slab_..." Bam! "I see you shiver with antici..._PAYshun!_"

And then in a booming voice he says, "**But maybe the rain**..."

And then in a softer voice he says, "...isn't really to blame..."

And then in a reasonable voice he says, "...so I'll relieve the _cause_..."

He pauses, just enough to chuckle to himself.

"...but NOT the SYMPTOM!"

With that, he plops himself sideways into the chair at the head of the dinner table, the top end of his body lounging over the right armrest, his long legs cocked seductively over the left.

"Oh, no!" he says, surveying the food. "Not meatloaf again!"


	52. Chapter 19c

"Ana, you've met my mother, Grace. And this is my father, Carrick."

I curtsy.

"Excuse me," I say, having curtsied a little too enthusiastically.

"Nothing a little wine won't distract us from," Christian's father says. He proffers a bottle. Mmm... Boone's Farm.

"How lovely to see you again," Christian's mother tells me.

"Really?" I ask.

"No," she answers.

"Mother!" Christian chastises. "This is no place for honesty."

Mrs. Grey raises her eyebrows. I don't know how she can get them so high above her head.

"That's okay, Christian," I tell him. "I've learned to accept abuse. Why, in high school I was voted Girl Most Likely To Date Chris Brown."

"Ana."

"Yes?"

"Be quiet."

"Okay."

"Don't make a sound."

"I won't."

"I mean it."

"So do I."

"Just shut up."

"I will."

"Not another word."

"I'm not saying anything."

For some reason my not saying anything upsets him even more.

"_Zing! Bang! Pow! _One of these days, Ana," he says, making a fist and threatening me with it. "To the moon! To the moon!"

What a sweet thought from a sweet man.

"Is she here?" a loud voice screeches from somewhere else in the house other than here.

The ground shakes as, from out of nowhere, Bigfoot in a tight dress comes stampeding into the room and traps me with a bear-hug. Giving me a tight squeeze with what could pass for two tree-trucks but are in actuality her arms, she lifts me high into the air. My bra snaps open and goes flying across the room with a loud bo-_innggg! _sound. My naked breasts flop up and down like a Slinky.

"That would be Mia, my little sister," Christian tells me.

_Little?_ I don't mean to be unkind, but she's so large they probably had to baptize her at Sea World.

"Ana!" she squeals, "I've heard so much about you!"

"Really?"

"No."

"Mia!" Christian chastises.

"That's okay," I say. "Back in high school I was voted Girl Most Likely To Invest With Bernie Madoff."

"It's just that Christian's never brought home a girl before," Christian's mother explains.

"Yes, we were taking bets on whether or not he liked things longer than he liked them wide," Mia continues the thought. "I guess nobody wins."

"Wine?" Christian father cuts in.

Hmm... I had forgotten about him.

"Let me introduce you to the rest of our guests," Christian says, and leads me away from his family. "Ana, this is Bill Cosby. Whatever you do, don't accept a drink from him."

"I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Cosby," I say.

"He's in charge of the Jello Pudding Pops," Christians mother tells me, explaining the reason why he's here.

"And this is former NBC news anchor Brian Williams."

I offer Mr. Williams my hand, but he's in the middle of telling the story of how he was attacked by the Taliban while climbing Mount Everest to fight Nazis.

"I'll say one thing about those terrorists," he says in conclusion, "without them I would have never broke the world record for climbing to the top of the world's highest peak."

"Whatever you do," Christian tells me, "don't believe a word he says. And this is..."

"_Kate!_" I yelp in excitement. "What are _you _doing here?"

"I'm pleased to meet you," Kate tells me. "And you are...?"

"Kate! It's _me!_ Ana!"

"Ana who?"

"No, not Ana Hu," I tell her. Why she thinks I'm Chinese, who knows. "Ana _Steele._ Your roommate."

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Miss Roommate. I'd lean in closer to give you a hug, but your breath smells just like the middle part of a Mexican friend of mine named Jose."

"That's a horrible thing to say, Kate." I say to her. "Why do you keep trying to break Christian and me up? I want to know."

"Because," she answers in that one-percenter kind of way of hers, "the more _you _have, the less _I_ have by comparison."

"Wine?" Christian's father wants to know.

The last person I meet is Christian's father's arch-enemy, Bob Bitchin. CEO of Bob Bitchin Incorporated. The way Christian explains it to me is that Mr. Bitchin is in the middle of a hostile takeover of Grey Enterprises & Enchilada Emporium. Christian's father invited him to dinner so they could "settle this nasty business once and for all."

And, speaking of dinner, it looks wonderful.

There's a meat salad with meat appetizers. Meat sides and a meat main course. In crystal pitchers, there's a thick liquid that's rich and colorful. I've never had a meat smoothie before, but, let me tell you, it looks absolutely refreshing in a refreshingly meaty kind of way. I bet it goes down smooth, just like Kate.

Hmm...

Smooth.

Smoothie.

I wonder...?

"You'll never guess what we're having for dessert," Christian's mother interrupts my reverie.

"My guess would be some kind of meat," Kate whispers to me, conspiratorially.

The men, stereotypically, are busy talking about sports.

"Did you see the game between the Harlem Globetrotters and the Washington Generals?"

I hear Christian say. "What a nail-biter! I had no idea who would win."

As we finally make our way to the table and sit down in our pre-assigned seats, Christian's father accidentally bumps into his arch-enemy and spills a splash of wine onto his lap. Without thinking, Mr. Bitchin grabs his dinner napkin and uses it to wipe the crimson liquid from the front of his pants.

"So sorry, old chap" Christian's father tells him, faking an English accent.

"Really?"

"No."

"Da-_add!_" Christian chastises.

"Mr. Bitchin, are you okay?" Christian's mother asks. I can hear concern in her voice.

Mr. Bitchin's eyes have started to pop out. He begins to clutch his at his throat like he can't breathe. He stands up, weaves back and forth, and then collapses to the floor.

"Oh, my Goobers!" I say. "Bob Bitchin's dead!"

My Inner Goddess and I Forget What The Other One Is immediately hit the road. If there's an accusation of murder to be made, they don't want to be there.

I can't blame them. Neither do I.

The cops are called and a Lt. Columbo shows up. He's a wrinkly little man in a wrinkly little raincoat with a glass eye that always seems to be pointed in the opposite direction of the way he's looking.

"Can somebody please explain to me the chronology of the events of the evening?" he asks.

"Wine?" Christian's father offers.

"No, thank you," Columbo says, politely, "just the facts, ma'am."

"I'm a sir."

"Yes, sir."

Christian's mother immediately takes over the situation.

"Well, you see, Lieutenant," she says, "we had all just sat down for a nice dinner, when Mr. Bitchin..."

"Who?"

"Mr. Bitchin."

"And who would that be?"

"That would be the dead man whom we called you about."

"I see, I see... hey, is that Brain Williams?-Are you still up for the position of Pope, Brian? Yeah, I thought so. Anyway-You were saying, sir?"

"I'm a ma'am."

"Ma'am."

"Well, we sat down for dinner, but, before we could eat, Mr. Bitchin..."

"Who?"

"Mr. Bitchin. The dead man we called you about."

"That's right. Go on, go on. I'm sorry for the interruption."

"Well, before any of us could eat anything, Mr. Bitchin had the bad manners to be murdered. Which reminds me, Lieutenant, will you be done soon? I'm famished."

"Just a few more questions, just a few more questions. I see your husband has been passing around wine like he was Gunga Din with a water pouch. Did everybody have a glass?"

"Yes. We all had a glass."

"And were there any hors d'oeuvres?"

"Yes."

"And did everybody have some?"

"Yes. We all ate hors d'oeuvres."

"And no one had a chance to eat any of the food at the table?"

"No. Lieutenant. No one did. Are we done?"

"Just one more question, ma'am. One more question."

The statement just kind of hangs there while Columbo's wandering eye makes its way around the room, looking at everything and yet nothing in particular.

"Say... is _that_ Bill Cosby? Uh, miss? I wouldn't drink that if I were you."

"Your question, Lieutenant?"

"What?"

"You had one more question?"

"Oh, yeah... was there anything out of the ordinary that happened? I mean, out of the ordinary as in something that was not ordinary thus making it out of the ordinary."

"Well, the only thing I can think of was when my husband accidentally bumped into Mr. Bitchin."

"That would be the dead man?"

"That's another question, Lieutenant."

"Sorry."

"Quite all right. When my husband accidentally spilled some wine on Mr. Bitchin, Mr. Bitchin grabbed his dinner napkin, cleaned himself off, and then expired."

"I see, I see."

"So..."

"So?"

"So, do you need to call CSI? NCIS? The ACLU?"

"Not at all. With everything you've told me, I know who killed Mr. Bitchin."

"Who?"

"The dead man you called me about."

"No, I mean: _Who_ killed him?"

"Why, it's obvious that it was your husband, ma'am."

"Surely, you must be joking."

"No, ma'am, I'm not. And don't call me Shirley. Everybody knows that Mr. Bitchin was in the middle of a hostile takeover of your husband's company, Grey Enterprises & Chinese Nookie Palace. Since everybody touched the same things, drank the same things, and ate the same things, the only thing that was different was when Mr. Bitchin handled his dinner napkin. It's obvious that your husband must have poisoned the dinner napkin in advance, and then not-so-accidentally spilled wine on Mr. Bitchin, causing him to grab his napkin to dry himself off. We'll test the napkin and I'm sure we'll find it contaminated with a fast-acting poison of some kind."

We stand there, all stunned.

Christian's mother looks in disbelief at her husband.

"Could it be true, dear?"

"Of course, my love. Every word."

Christian's mother then turns back to the police Lieutenant.

"Will you be arresting my husband for murder, Lieutenant?"

Columbo's glass eye rambles all over the room and finally settles on Christian's mother.

"Of course not," he assures her. "He's rich."


	53. Chapter 19d

"Shall I give you a tour of the grounds?" Christian asks me after dinner.

He leads me into the kitchen and opens the trash-compacter.

"What's that?" I ask, confused.

"Columbian," he explains. "Fresh roasted. We have a good friend who lives there who owns his own coffee bean farm. He's from the old country. Germany. A doctor during the great war, but now he's retired."

In a rare act of affection, he takes my hand in his. I'm not used to rare acts of affection, so I use the back of his hand to wipe my nose.

"How about a grand tour?"

"I'd love one," I say.

He holds out his right hand, palm up.

I try, but fail, to give him a high-five down-low.

"It's a grand," he says, nodding his head in my direction. "For the tour."

He clarifies his gesture by rubbing his thumb and forefinger briskly together in the international sign for _moolah_.

"I don't have a grand."

"Well, then, would you like to see my room?"

"Sure," I tell him.

"Well, it's not actually a room. We're so rich we each have our own floors."

"Even your parents?"

"_Especially _my parents."

"I can't believe your parents sleep on separate floors, Christian."

"If your observation were any more juvenile, Ana, Michael Jackson would have taken a nap with it."

We take the indoor elevator upstairs to the fourth floor. There's a full-length mirror that's covered by an old blanket. I pull the blanket to the side because I want to check my makeup, but I was wrong. Instead of a mirror, it's actually a full-length painting of an old, old man. He looks like Christian, only antiquated. He looks so primordial, I bet his Social Security number is #7.

"What's this?" I ask Christian.

"Uh," Christian says, rushing over, "that's just an oil portrait by Basil Hallward."

"Of who?" I ask.

"Of whom." he answers.

"I don't know, that's why I'm asking you. If you forget about the wrinkles, grey hair, and liver spots, it looks just like _you_."

"No, it doesn't."

"Yes, it does."

"No, it doesn't."

"Yes, it does."

"No, it _doesn't_," and with that he quickly covers the painting back up.

"Is it your grandfather?"

"Uh, yeah," he tells me, kind of shaken. "My grandfather."

"He looks pretty old."

"That's because he's my _great_-grandfather."

"Oh," I say. I look around. "Gee, it looks just like a museum up here."

I meant to say "mausoleum," but got confused. Christian graciously moves me away from the lush, oddly lifelike portrait that seemed to age as I looked at it, while recording every soul-corrupting sin of its painted subject. He hustles me in the opposite direction and shows me his Souvenir Room.

"These are keepsakes I received from various ladies I had the occasion to meet during my stay in London," he tells me.

"London?"

"Yes, London."

"Where's that?"

"In Europe?"

"Hmmm... Europe."

"Well, actually it's in England."

"Ahhh... England."

"You know, England. As in Great Britain."

"Oh! Great Britain! Well, why didn't you say so?"

"So you know where I'm talking about?"

"No, but let's pretend I do."

"Well, during my time in England, London's Whitechapel area to be exact, I came to know various young ladies very-um, shall we say-intimately, and these were souvenirs they were kind enough to part with."

I look closely.

There was a beautiful silk scarf.

A lovely beaded pocketbook.

An ovary.

_AN OVARY!_

_ Yikes!_

"It's not what you think," Christian assures me.

"How do you know what I think?" I ask him.

"I don't," he says, "but whatever it is, that's not it. It was a gift."

"A... _gift?_"

"Yes, a gift. Surely, you've heard of Vincent Van Gogh."

"Of course I've heard of Vincent Van Gogh. I'm not stupid, you know. I'm college edumacated."

"Well, then, you must know how he once cut off one of his ears to give to the woman he loved as a gift."

"He did? I must have missed that in the song by Don MacLean."

"Well, he did. And surely you've seen the movie with Kirk Douglas."

"Of course I've seen the movie with Kirk Douglass. I'm not stupid, you know. And why do you keep calling me Shirley?"

"Well, in the same way that Vincent Van Gogh gave the woman he loved his ear, I received this ovary as a gift. A most personal gift."

"Yeah, you can't get more personal than that."

"I'm glad you understand," he says, and then shows me the rest of his collection, telling me who the various items belonged to. "This scarf belonged to the radiant Mary Ann Nichols. This diamond earring was from the very comely lass, Annie Chapman. The alluring Elizabeth Stride was gracious enough to let me have her bonnet, and the ribbon was from the angelic Catherine Eddows."

"Who gave you the shoe?"

"The shoe belonged to the exquisite Mary Kelly."

"Just one?"

"One was all I needed."

"No, I'm asking, she only gave you one shoe?"

"Yes, one shoe was all she gave me."

"Did she have only one foot?"

"No, she had two feet."

"I mean, who only gives one shoe as a gift?"

"Well, that would be Mary 'One Shoe' Kelly, as she was known in the East End. You see, when I left Miss Kelly that night, one shoe was all I had time to receive. In fact, I was in a bit of a rush to escape."

"Escape?"

"I mean, abscond."

"Abscond?"

"I mean, get away."

"Get away?"

"I mean, leave."

"Christian," I said, seriously. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

"Like what?"

"Like what the word 'abscond' means?"

He quickly ushers me back downstairs and outside, where he shows me the grounds. Of the mansion, this time. I must say, things look especially beautiful in the dark of night when you can't see them.

"This is our quicksand pit with only the finest imported Italian quicksand money can buy," he points out.

"Oooo..." I say.

"And this is our koi pond."

"Can I dip my toes in the water, it looks so refreshing."

"You'd better not. We keep the koi pond stocked with rare Belgian piranha," he tells me, tossing in a chihuahua.

Christian seems to be leading me somewhere, but he's not saying exactly where. Finally, I see a little house in the distance. Could it be a boathouse, perhaps?

"It's the Bait Shack," he tells me.

"A bait shack? Why are you taking me to a bait shack?"

"Because that, my dear, is where I'll make mad, passionate love to you."

_Oh, my goobers!_


	54. Chapter 20a

"_Ugh!_" Christian grunts. "_Ugh!_"

But it's no use.

Christian threatened that he was going to lift me over his shoulder like the naughty little girl I am and carry me helplessly inside his Love Parlor/Bait Shack, yet gravity keeps me firmly attached to the ground.

"Crockett!" he calls out and from out of nowhere his Man Friday appears. "Pick up Miss Steele and take her into the Bait Shack," he orders him.

So much for helplessly.

"Boss," Crockett complains, "can't you have me lift something easier, like Mt. Rushmore?"

Christian ignores him and is already walking away.

With a huff and a puff and a grunt and a groan, Crockett lifts me off my feet and over his shoulder. Step by step and inch by inch, he carries me inside.

I look inside and am disappointed by what I see. Fish guts _everywhere. _And the _smell_. It stinks like high tide, if high tide was low tide. The strong stink of stench hits me like Mike Rice in a Las Vegas elevator. Whatever you do, don't ride in an elevator with Mike Rice.

In a manly swipe of his arm, Christian knocks all the contents off the top of an office desk which conveniently, and for the purposes of this story, is located in a corner of the room. A name-plate lands at my feet with the name Dr. Deborah Nucatola on it, just underneath is her title Senior Director of Medical Services.

"You sure did see a lot in the dim light," Christian tells me.

"I just found it odd," I say.

"Well, it's not so odd. We Greys rarely fish, so we rent out this Bait Shack to Planned Parenthood. It's one of their medical clinics."

"I see," I say, not really seeing but sawing.

"Crockett, kindly place Miss Steele on top of the desk," Christian commands his bodyguard and personal hookah-handler, "and please close the door on your way out. Miss Steele will be handling my hookah tonight."

"Yes sir, boss," Crockett tells him, and does as he's told.

With the door shut, it's completely dark inside the Bait Shack. My Inner Goodness shivers_. _Or maybe it's my Subconscious. It's so dark I can't tell.

"Christian, where _are_ you?" I bleat.

"I'm right here, Ana," he tells me. "And here. And here, and here."

The sound of his voice moves around me sexily like silk, if silk could move. Confusing me, confounding me, conflicting me, and many other words that begin with "con" and continue with "f".

"I can't see you."

"Good," he tells me, and I can hear the hunger in his voice.

With the pungent aroma of fish, I'm pretty hungry, too.

Mmm... fish.

"I don't want you to see me," he goes on, not feeding me. "I'm going to make wild, passionate love to you in this pitch black, using only my superior sense of smell to find you."

I hear him shuffle in the darkness.

"_Ow!_" he says. "That's not you, is it?"

"No," I answer.

"Of course not," he says. "I knew that. I only wondered, in this darkness, if _you_ knew that."

I hear him shuffle some more.

"_Ow!" "Ow!" "Ow!"_

Then finally...

"Ah... _here _you are."

"Er... _what?_"

I'm distracted by all the wet stickiness beneath me.

"_Mmm_..."

"_Ahhh_..."

This must be the wet spot Kate is always complaining about.

"Ooooo..."

"_Ew... w__hat's this?"_

Um, maybe it's better I don't know.

"Oh, Ana."

"Oh, Christian."

"Oh, Ana!"

"Oh, Christian!"

"_Oh, Ana!_"

"_Oh, Christian!_"

"_OH, ANA!_"

"_OH, CHRISTIAN!_"

"Oh, Ana! _Oh, Ana!_ _OH, ANA!_"

"I'm over here."

"Too late. I'm done."


	55. Chapter 20b

"Despite my sexual peccadilloes, Ana," Christian was telling me, "I'm really not that different than anyone else."

I'm laying here in Christian's arms, and I can't believe in how much he's confiding in me. I guess men like to talk after.

After what?

I'm still not sure.

"For example," he says, "I've never even had sex with two women at the same time. I've had sex with a woman who weighed more than two women, but that's about it. And I've never enjoyed a husband and wife getting into an argument in front of me. The least they could do is let me get dressed and leave first. And I like using _I Can't Believe It's Not Butter _with my morning toast. That way, when someone asks me how my breakfast was, I can honestly answer: 'It was unbelievable.' Have you ever had a lesbian experience, Ana?"

Holy crap!

Where did _that _come from?

Maybe all this confiding stuff is overrated.

"Um... no," I tell him.

"Really?" he says, surprised. "You mean you've never tripped and fallen face-first into Kate's vagina?"

"Sure, but who hasn't?"

I pause.

My Inner Goodness motions me to go on.

"Christian?" I say, meekly.

"Yes, my sweet?"

"Why does your family have a Bait Shack in El Paso of all places. We're in the middle of a desert, for crying out loud."

"Well," he says, "it's one of the idiosyncrasies of being rich. You're never truly considered rich until you own things that other rich men don't have. For example, back when I used to play golf, I hired a beautiful young college girl to wash my balls. You see, back then I enjoyed driving a Mercedes 450SL, and the other rich golfers would kid me about my not owning a Rolls Royce. I simply told them, 'I may not drive a Rolls, but then none of you have a beautiful young girl washing your balls, do you?' They could only cast their eyes downward, admitting defeat."

"You? Had a girl? Washing your balls?"

"Yes, and after every hole we'd go into the bushes where she'd enthusiastically polish my putter."

"I love laying here in your arms," I tell him, "but this is all so new to me."

"I understand, my dear. There's a first time for everything. I remember the first time I went to have my custom-made rubbers sized. It was embarrassing for me, but the gentleman in charge of taking my measurements tried to make me feel at ease. He handed me a board with holes in it. The holes were all different sizes. And then he pointed me to a private room. What he wanted me to do was go into the room, achieve and erection, and measure the circumference of my erect manhood using the holes in the board. He asked me if I needed help. I told him no, and he seemed disappointed."

_Oh, my!_ This _was _new to me. The only thing I can think of that's similar is when Kate goes shopping for vegetables. She must be love her salads, because she's very picky about the length and girth of her cucumbers.

"So I took the board," he continues, "examined the different sizes of the holes in it, entered the room and did what comes naturally. I put it on, I took it off. I put it on, I took it off. It took me a while, but I eventually found the hole with the best fit."

"And then what happened?"

"When I was done I told the man, 'Forget the rubbers, how much do you want for the board?"

_Oh, my!_

All of a sudden, the Bait Shack begins to shake around us.

What Can It Be?

_AN EARTHQUAKE?_


	56. Chapter 20c

No, it was just Christian's younger sister banging on the door.

I want to run and hide, but I'm so weak from our naughty shenanigans I couldn't punch my way out of a paper bag. Fortunately, I don't get stuck in a paper bag that often.

"Here," Christian says, tossing me a pair of edible panties.

Mmmm... delicious.

"Those weren't edible," Christian tells me.

I spit the chewed-up underwear into my hand and look around. Hmm, I don't see a trash receptacle. With no place to throw it away I'll have to hold it in my hand and carry it around. Maybe he won't notice.

Christian lets his sister in.

"Ana!" she screams, and lumbers enthusiastically towards me. "Hug! Hug!"

I put up my hands to ward her off, and she sees what I have.

"Ooo.. candy," she says, snatching the pre-chewed panties out of my hand and popping them into her mouth. "Yum."

I nudge Christian.

"What?" he says.

"Aren't you going to tell her?"

"Tell her what?"

We make our way back into the main house, and Kate runs up to say goodbye.

"We don't mean to rush off," she says, "but Crockett and I are on our way to have sex."

"Do you two ever do anything besides have sex?" I ask Kate, mortified.

"Sure, sometimes we go to the park and have sex, or we go to the movies and have sex, or we go to the zoo and have sex."

"You've had sex at the zoo?"

"Of course."

I've always wondered why those animals all have funny looks on their faces.

"Crockett's promised to make me some Cajun Chili tonight," she whispers confidentially.

"What's that?"

"I don't know, but it involves a baby alligator, some Lousiana Hot Sauce, and someone's anus. Preferably mine."

We watch them as they leave.

"That Kate," I tell Christian, wistfully, "she's so beautiful."

"I don't know," Christian tells me, "take away her beauty, her body, and her fortune and what do you have?"

"Me?"

"And don't you forget it."

"We'll be going, too," Christian tells his parents.

"Aw, that's a shame," his father says, turning his attention to me. "We haven't even had a chance to brag about Christian yet."

"That's true, dear," Christian's mother tells her husband. Then she, too, turns her attention my way. "Did you know Christian was quite the athlete when he was younger, Ana? It's true. In fact, he was the first person to ever throw a no-hitter."

"Um, I don't mean to correct you, Mrs. Grey," I say, correcting her, "but other people have thrown no-hitters in baseball."

"Yes," she says, "but he did it in _football_."

I look at Christian, impressed. He gives me an aw-shucks grin that I find irresistible.

"Mother," he says, "please."

"There's nothing wrong with a mother bragging about her adopted son."

_Adopted?_

His mother comes up to me and gives me a hard hug goodbye.

"Come back any time, dear," she tells me.

"Really?"

"No."

The hug squeezed something loose inside of me. I excuse myself to go use the bathroom. I have to drop the kids off at the pool, if you get my drift.

As I sit there, I look around. I've never seen a bathroom so elaborately elaborate. The sink is made of gold. The toilet is made of gold. Even the medicine cabinet is made of SOLID GOLD!

Hmm, the medicine cabinet.

I wonder if rich people store the same things in there that a poor person does. Don't get me wrong, I'm not poor. I just don't have a nickel to my name. Perhaps it's just as well, I don't think I'd like to be called Ana Nickel.

I look at the medicine cabinet.

I shouldn't, but...

I open the cabinet door and gasp in shock. It's Christian's mother, Grace, looking at me looking at her. There's a hole on the other side, and she's got her face jammed in it. Apparently, she knew I would give in to the dark side and take a peek like a nosy nellie.

"Can I help you, dear?" she asks.

"Um... no," I mew.

"Please don't be snooping in our medicine cabinets," she tells me, and shuts the cabinet door using a little gold knob that was obviously attached to the inside for just such occasions.

"Okay," I say meekly, but she's already gone.

On our drive home, Christian tells me, "Well, it seems you're a hit with my parents."

"Really?"

"No."

"Christian?"

"Yes?"

"Why didn't you tell me you were adopted?"

"There's a lot you don't know about me, my darling. Before the Grey's adopted me, I was in a gang with One-eyed Willie, Dom Irrera, and the Petey brothers: Big Petey, Little Petey, Regular-Sized Petey, Ortho-Petey, and the one who always said everything twice, Re-Petey. My friends, S.E. and Hinton, came up with our name, The Outsiders. We were a gang, that is, until we accidentally came across an actual gang, the Tenth Avenue Freeze-Outs. That was when we quickly decided to become a fraternity." Christian smiled at the memory. "Silly as it sounds, we even gave each other nicknames: Soda Pop, Pony Boy, Tube Steak."

"What did they call you?"

"They called me Mister Tibbs."

"Tibbs was your last name?"

"No, it was just a movie I saw. It's been a long journey from the orphan I was to the man I eventually became. The man who started the Save The Gerbils Foundation."

"Do you remember your real parents?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Grey _are _my real parents."

"You know what I mean."

"The only thing I remember about my biological father is a bit of advice he once gave me. He told me not to masturbate because it makes people go blind."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him, 'I'm over here, dad.'"

Christian's given me a lot to think about.

"Ana?"

"Yes, Christian?"

"Are you familiar with the old nursery rhyme

_'Milk, milk, lemonade._

_Around the corner, fudge is made'_?"

"No."

He grows quiet, thoughtful. There is something on his mind, but I have no idea what. Maybe he's hungry for some fudge. I know I am. And then...

"Do you ever see yourself indulging in anal sex?"

"No."

"But don't you plan on ever getting pregnant?"

Before I can answer, he says, "We're home."


	57. Chapter 20d

Home.

_Home!_

When Christian says those words, I can hear a harp playing.

Christian stops his car, turns off the engine, and angrily gets out to throw the street musician located on the sidewalk into the actual street.

"Harpists," he tells me, and spits a huge goober onto the sidewalk in contempt. "They're worse than mimes."

Ever the gentleman, he opens the door on my side for me to get out. I hesitate. If there's one thing I learned from Rodney King, it's to _never _get out of the car.

"Stop eating that ham," he says.

"Sorry," I tell him, "I just happened to have one in my purse."

I reach up to grab the top of the door to daintily lug myself out, and notice him looking at my armpit.

"Don't stare," I tell him. "I'm self-conscious because I didn't have a chance to shave."

"I'm sorry," he says. "I was just wondering how you got your leg up that high."

As he leads me inside his-_our_-home, he tells me, "This will have to be an early night, my dear, because every morning I wake up at 5am to read the Wall street Journal."

"Why so early?" I ask him.

"Because my neighbor doesn't wake up until 6. Would you care for something to drink?"

"Sure," I say.

He directs me to a soda machine, where a bottle of pop is $5."

"Christian..."

"Yes?"

"It's 5 dollars."

"Do you need change?"

He leads me into the bedroom.

"You know, Ana," he seductively whispers as he removes my clothes, "a man has only a single decade of normal sex before he becomes an animal, and an animal in the bedroom we all eventually do become."

Naked, I slip under the sheets.

He walks over to the other side of the bed and begins to take off _his _clothes.

"After that, he'll spend the next decade monkeying around," he continues, explaining himself. "The third decade is spent lion about it. And the fourth and last decade he makes an ass of himself."

He slips into bed with me and comes close, a predator moving in for the kill.

"Get ready, baby," he tells me, baring his teeth. "I'm going to Rock... Your... World!"

With that, Christian rolls on top of me, reaches over to turn off the light on the nightstand on my side of the bed, and then rolls back, winded.

"_Whew!_" he says, breathing heavily. "That was great."

"It was?"

"Yeah, baby. You're the best."

"I am?"

"You bet."

Having had his filthy way with me, Christian gets up and leaves to "make an important business call," he says, excusing himself.

Hmm... apparently, his "important business call" has to be made from the privacy of his bathroom, it seems.

With nothing to do, I look around. Nosy Nellie's at it again.

Hmm... what's _this._

I pick up a little doohickey of some kind and hold it in my hand, lifting it to get a better look. It looks like the controls for one of those Magic Fingers bed massages, the kind you find in the finer, more upscale cheap motels.

_What's a bed massage? _my Inner Goodness asks, and I can't help but notice my Subconscious give her a dirty look.

A bed massage, at least the kind _I'm_ talking about, is a vibrating mechanism in the bed of a motel room that activates once you put a quarter (or quarters) in the coin slot. I've never seen one myself, but that's what Kate tells me. Then again, Kate's the kind of girl who likes a car with a sunroof because it gives her more leg-room.

I wonder where...

I look for the little coin slot where I can insert my quarters to get this mechanism working. Let's see, is _this_ it?

No, that's my vagina.

I'll remove those quarters later.

Oh, I get it! This is a control box for the _bed! _

I knew Christian was rich, but I never dreamt he had enough money to afford a _folding_ bed.

_What's a folding bed? _my Inner Goodness wants to know.

My Subcompact slaps her on the back of the head for being so stupid.

_Now, girls_, I tell them._ There's no such thing as a stupid question, unless you're asking if Donald Trump really does have a chance of becoming president._

A folding bed is one of those kind of beds, like the hospitals have, that fold in the middle like a taco.

Mmm... tacos.

Anyway, this remote I'm holding in my hand controls which end you wish to raise or lower. The top button controls the top and the bottom button controls the bottom.

I wonder what _this _button does?

_WHAM!_

Both ends of the bed slam together like they're giving each other a High Five. I'm forcibly folded between the mattress against my will, like the meat in an Ana Sandwich. I'm touching my toes in an unnatural way. I haven't been able to touch my toes since... since... Well, I've _never _been able to touch my toes, but that's beside the point.

_Come on, girls! _I tell my imaginary friends. _Help me get out of here!_

But they don't. Instead, my Inner Goodness is excitedly pointing at the remote, which has flown out of my hand and landed across the room. She's jumping up and down in a panic.

My Subcontinent slaps her upside the head to calm her down.

Thus angered, this causes my Inner Goodness to poke her viciously in the eyes.

My Subcomponent retaliates by grabbing my Inner Goodness' nose with a pair of pliers and stretching her nostrils outward like a lying Pinocchio.

My Inner Goodness takes the handsaw she just happens to have in her hand, and drags the sharp, jagged teeth along my Subcontract's head.

_Why, I oughta... _my Subcommunist says, rubbing her head in pain. Her head is so hard, all the teeth on the handsaw have broken or bent.

Seeing this, my Inner Goodness throws the now useless handsaw to the side. _C'mere, you! _she says, and grabs two handfuls of my Subcontrary's hair and rips them out in huge chunks.

My Subcortex looks at the tuffs of her recently pulled-out hair in my Inner Goodness' clenched fists and angrily yells, _I'm gonna murdalize ya! _She punches her in the stomach and, when my Inner Goodness' hands lower to protect her gut, my Subculture punches her in the nose. When my Inner Goodness' hands go to protect her nose, my Subcenter punches her in the gut again. And then her nose.

_ Gut!_

_ Nose!_

_ Gut!_

_ Nose!_

_ Gut!_

_ Nose!_

My Inner Goodness manages to get her hand on an exaggeratedly large and heavy-looking hammer, and gives my Subclimax a hard whack on the head, just above her forehead, causing her to see stars.

My Subclavical, I mean.

Seeing stars, that is.

_Hey, girls! What about me?_

They stop, but only because Christian has exited the bathroom with a folded up newspaper under his arm. He stops when he sees me trapped in his bed.

"Hi," I say, and give a little wave.

"You know, my mother was a crack whore," he tells me, and goes off to bed.


	58. Chapter 21a

It's morning and the light is everywhere.

I clamber out of bed feeling stiff, but, sadly, not a stiffy. My subconscious looks at me disapprovingly. She has a black eye and a missing front tooth. Two bald spots where the hair had been torn out of her head. The black eye is on her left side. No, her right. Her left? Her right?

Let's see, which way am I facing?

My inner goodness glares at me in exasperation. _It's her left, _she corrects me, impatiently. _Or is it her right?_ My inner goodness doesn't know which way she's facing either.

"Good morning, Miss Steele," a voice from the kitchen area calls out to me.

It's not Christian's voice, but, if it's not Christian's, then who?

It must be Christian's very attractive maid. I'm jealous at the very thought of her. I bet she even does windows. I wonder if she's the one he told me about who washes his balls at the golf course. I head to where she is.

"Would you care for some breakfast?" she asks me with a friendly smile.

Breakfast? Who cares who the voice belongs to? I'm starving!

"I don't want to be a bother," I say, playing hard-to-get. "I'm into natural foods. I can always go outside and lick a tree."

"No bother," she says, and then lists more than half a dozen breakfast items. Eggs, bacon, pancakes, waffles, ham, sausage, and biscuits.

"Okay," I tell her.

"Okay," she says.

That's what I like about Christian. He hires smart women.

Speaking of Christian, where the heck is he?

I scuttle off toward the study. As I get closer I hear his voice.

"All I'm saying, General, is selling the rights to name our missile defense system to the various erectile dysfunction companies is a smart way to go. Can you imagine how much Viagra would pay to have the latest missile named after it? The Viagra ballistic missile with a nuclear warhead. Devastating. The Cialis cruise missile. Awesome. The Levitra long-range missile. The Stendra Bunker Buster. The Ron Jeremy Back-Door Intruder. The possibilities are endless, as are the sexual innuendoes."

He looks up and sees me. A slow, sexy smile spreads across his face like peanut butter. That's right, I said peanut butter.

"I'll talk to you later, General."

He hangs up and immediately calls Andrea, his personal secretary.

"Andrea, I'll need an extra ticket for that rich person's thing I have to go to later. Why? Because I have a date. That's right, a date."

He pauses as Andrea asks him something on the other end.

"Why is _everyone_ always so surprised when I have a date?"

Pause.

"Of course she's female."

He turns to me.

"You _are _female, aren't you?"

I nod my head.

"Just do it," he says into the phone, and hangs up.

"Good morning, Miss Steele," he tells me, walking around his desk.

"Hi'ya," I answer as he strokes my cheek. "I just wanted to see you before I had a shower."

"Wouldn't you rather have _me _instead?"

With that, and one mighty sweep of his hand, he clears his desk of all its important business clutter, bends me over, and takes me like Grant took Richmond.

Once sated, I figure it's my chance.

"Why don't you like to be touched," I ask him. The top of my inner goddess' head explodes, and my subconscious' sore jaw drops to the floor.

Christian takes a step back. He walks to his window, and gazes at the street below. To the freshly fallen, silent shroud of snow.

He is a rock. He is an island.

"And a rock feels no pain," he tells me. "And an island never cries."

He pauses, searching for just the right words.

"You know, Ana," he begins, "I'm a man who likes to buy the jar with peanut butter AND jelly in it. It's just too much work to open and close _two_ jars, not to mention the extra knife I'd have to wash. I dream of the day when we have the technology to put peanut butter and jelly together in toothpaste tubes, but that is still in the future. I may not see it happen, but I pray my children will. My children, but not my children's children, because I don't think children should be having unprotected sex."

"Before you go any further," I interrupt, "I just want to tell you one thing."

"What's that?"

"Don't go any further."

"Do you understand what I'm telling you, my dear?"

"I think I do."

"You do?"

"Yes."

"Good, then explain it to me."

"Well," I say, "it's like when I was taking Sex Ed in high school. The teacher was required to have us role a condom down a cucumber to practice for safe-sex. 'Boy, are you guys in for a let-down,' she told us. 'Much like the disappointment of finding out the stranger in the van doesn't really have any candy.' Then she broke down in tears and left us soon after that."

"You've completely beguiled me, Miss Steele. You're the kind of girl who would stare at a can of orange juice because it says 'concentrate.'"

"I have to go," I tell him, my voice quiet. "You know, my... my... job interview."

"I know," he says softly, his eyes not meeting mine.

"I'll miss you," I tell him.

"I'll miss you, too. More than you know."

I turn to leave, and walk out the door to an uncertain future.

"That's the closet," he tells me.

"I know."


	59. Chapter 21b

I'm at my job interview.

"Miss Steele," Jack Hyde, the acquisitions editor at SIP, the company I'm applying to, begins by asking me some sharp, intelligent questions. I'd tell you some of them, but I don't feel like making any up.

"And where do you see yourself in ten years?" he says.

What is this, a trick question?

"Right here," I answer, confidently, "attending a party celebrating my ten-year anniversary with this company."

He laughs, and then says, "Miss Steele, I would like to do a word association with you, if you don't mind."

"Why would I mind?"

"You'd be surprised. Anyway, I'll say a word, and you can respond with the first word that comes into your mind."

"Okay."

"Wrong word."

"Sorry."

"Well, let's start with something simple then. How about: boy."

"Girl."

"That's good. Now: man."

"Woman."

"Even better. Music."

"Sax."

"Number."

"Six."

"Religions."

"Sects."

"A building."

"An erection."

"I said one word."

"Okay."

"Wrong word."

"Sorry."

"Ding."

"Dong."

"Computer."

"Wang."

"Nixon."

"Dick."

"Needle."

"Prick."

"Mistake."

"Boner."

"Nerd."

"Dork."

"Hot dog."

"Weiner."

"Saint."

"Peter."

"Hang."

"Hung."

"One-eyed."

"Willie."

"Small."

"Huge."

"Chicken."

"Pecker."

"Square."

"Round."

"Donkey."

"Ass."

"Butter."

"Creamy."

"Cat."

"Pussy."

"Soft."

"Hard."

"Gun."

"Cock."

"Rooster."

"Big, fat cock."

"Dry."

"Wet."

"Water."

"Very wet."

"Ocean."

"_Soooo_ wet."

"Talk."

"Intercourse."

"Shot."

"Bang."

"Banging."

"Pounding."

"Rhythm."

"Pulsating."

"Aching."

"Throbbing."

"Turtle."

"Faster."

"Faster?"

"_Faster_!"

"Shallow."

"_Deeper!_"

"Easy."

"_Harder!_"

"Baseball."

"_HARDER!_"

"I'm there."

"Me, too."

"Arrive."

"Come."

He stops, leans back, lights a cigarette, takes a drag deep into his lungs, and lets the smoke billow out from between his lips satisfyingly. Slowly, as if he's under water, he looks over to Elizabeth Morgan, the head of human resources at SIP, the company I'm applying to.

"Give this lady a job," he tells her.


	60. Chapter 21c

Kate is practicing a magic trick when I come home. She's making a salami disappear.

Mmm... salami.

"How did your interviews go?" she asks.

I can't believe she's interested.

"Good," I tell her.

"Gee, that's too bad."

"Why's that?"

"Because the better people around me do, the less special my accomplishments seem by comparison. That's why I lent you those jean overalls to wear, to sabotage you. They belong to the family handyman, George. He works at our Vermont inn."

"Is that why you wanted me to go braless?"

"No, I thought going braless would help take the wrinkles out of your face."

I look at what I'm wearing. I thought I looked cute.

"Don't you know?" I tell her. "Boho country is in. Can you give me a lift to the airport?"

"Are you going somewhere?"

"To visit my mom. She's works there as a prostitute."

I wish I could say my mom and I are close, but, unfortunately, because of her alcoholism, that's not the case. As sad as it sounds, I used to wish I'd grow up to be a margarita so my mother would pay more attention to me. I remember how, when I was a toddler, my mother would tie a bone around my neck to get the dog to play with me so she could spend the afternoon drinking herself into a stupor. I love that woman so much.

Kate shocks me out of my reverie by telling me she broke up with Crockett. OMG!, WTF!, and LOL! And I thought they made such a great couple. They were practically attached at the hip, but the doctor refused to do the surgery at the last minute.

"How'd you do it?" I ask her.

"Do what?"

"Break up with him?"

"Easy," she says. "I just told him I was pregnant."

"And what did he say?"

"He said, 'See ya,' and was out of the door faster than a White House denial. Hee, hee... works every time."

Before we leave, I send Christian a quick email. I don't know if he'll respond, as busy as he is. I mean, he's a rich billionaire businessman, if I can be so redundantly blunt. He must have a _ton_ of things to do, with people needing his attention every single second of the day.

He writes back immediately.

From: Christian Grey

To: Anastasia Steele

_Well, if it isn't Farmer Jones. How did your interviews go?_

From: Anastasia Steele

To: Christian Grey

_They went well. I just wanted to say bye, before I leave for the airport._

From: Christian Grey

To: Anastasia Steele

_Are you going somewhere?_

At the airport, Kate slows down enough for me to safely jump out of her car. I hope George doesn't mind a few tears at the knees. Fortunately, torn jeans are in.

I get to the airport, and I'm about to sit in public seating, when a security guard approaches me.

"Excuse me, ma'am," he tells me. "I'm here to escort you to the First Class waiting area, where you can drink, be massaged, and have your nose-hairs plucked."

"I don't need my nose-hairs plucked," I tell him, indignantly.

"I guess they do keep your upper lip warm," he acknowledges, and then, taking my arm, leads me away.

I can't help thinking: How _dare_ Christian Grey arrange for me to be pampered in the First Class waiting lounge.

That guy is the biggest jerk I know.

I send him another email.

From: Anastasia Steele

To: Christian Grey

_You are the biggest jerk I know!_

From: Christian Grey

To: Anastasia Steele

_What did I do now?_

From: Anastasia Steele

To: Christian Grey

_Well, if you don't know, I'm certainly not telling you!_

Ugh. I narrow my narrow eyes narrowly and press send. If that Christian Grey thinks he can buy me, well, he can, but that doesn't mean I have to enjoy it the way a reasonably normal person would. It'll take more than a complimentary nose-hair plucking for that, and, just to make sure, I call the security guard over.

"Is it the end of the chapter?" I ask him.

"Yes," he tells me.

"Then I'll take the nose-hair makeover after all."


	61. Chapter 22a

"Thank you, Mr..." I take a quick look at the security guy's nametag, "...Johnson."

"Ma'am," he tells me, indignantly, "my name is Raymond J. Johnson Jr. Now, you can call me _Ray_, or you can call me _Jay_, or you can call me _Johnny_, or you can call me _Sonny_, or you can call me _Junie_, or you can call me _Junior_, or you can call me _Ray-Jay_, or you can call me _Jay-Jay_, or you can call me _RJ_, or you can call me _RJJ_, or you can call me _RJJ Jr_... but you doesn't hasta call me Johnson_._"

Um... that's good to know. For future reference, I mean.

"Thanks you," I tell him, "..._sir_."

While in the First Class waiting area, I have a drink or two, a nosh or two, and a massage or two. I didn't know they gave massages at the airport, and the masseuse is kind enough to take my purse for "cleaning." Wow, I could get used to this kind of life.

I send Christian a quick email.

_"You are such a thoughtless jerk, spending money on me the way you do. I never want to see you again _ever! _Also, I am drunk. And how long does it take to clean a purse anyway?"_

_"Ana, you're rambling." _

My mother arrives just then.

"Sorry I'm late, honey," she tells me. "I was working the truck stop."

I'm in the middle of getting another massage, so I'm laying stomach-down with my face in the donut, just like I do every Saturday night.

Mmm...donuts.

I see 2 pair of feet.

"Hi, Ana," says the second pair. "What's new?"

It's my step-father, Bob Bitchin.

"Oh, nothing," I tell him playfully. "I just got a job in the last chapter."

"Oh, honey," my mother says, "that's wonderful."

"Yes," my step-father concurs, "it is. But you know you could have always come work for me, like your mom."

I tell him I know, but I'm just trying to be kind.

"I wanted to do it on my own," I explain.

"I know, Ana," he tells me. I know, he knows, everybody knows. "Well, I've got to go. Dear..." he says, turning to mom, "how much did you earn for me at the truck stop?"

"Twenty dollars and ten cents," she tells him proudly.

"_Tent cents?_" he yells. "Who the heck paid you ten cents?"

"All of them."

While my mother is busy counting out all the dimes, I decide to send off another quick email to Christian.

_"I'm sorry about before, Christian. I've been upset ever since John Boehner said he was retiring."_

_"That's okay."_

_"What are you doing?"_

_"Eating. With a friend."_

_"WHAT? You're EATING? With John Boehner RETIRING? I've never known anyone so callous! And, yes, I do know what the word 'callous' means. I never want to speak with you again... EVER! Oh, and can you send me your American Express number? I want to pay for things MYSELF."_

My mother is done, kisses my step-dad, and sends him on his way. Now she can turn all her annoying attention to me.

"You have to lower your standards to get a man," she says, offering me unwanted advice. "Remember Ike Turner? From Ike & Tina Turner? I think he was Tina. Well, no sooner did he get out of prison for using drugs than he found himself a girlfriend. They made a whole movie about how he used to physically abuse his wife, and he _still _found a girlfriend. Do you know why? Because he found a girl with low standards. That girl would be alone today if she had set her standards any higher."

"But I _do _have a boyfriend, mom," I tell her, beseechingly. "His name is Christian, and he's _rich._"

"He's not like all your other boyfriends, is he? The ones you had in high school? The ones who always lived out of town so no one could ever meet them?"

"No, mom. This one's real."

"Because I don't want you to be like me, Ana. When I was younger, I set my standards too high. I remember one time, I was working a bachelor party when the future groom told me where I could find a husband. It was a building filled with single men who were looking for wives. He gave me the address and I immediately went there after servicing him and all his friends. I was greeted at the front desk by the receptionist, who told me, 'If you'd like, ma'am, you can go to each room down this hall, see what they have to offer, and choose your husband accordingly. The only restriction is that you can only go forward, not back.'

"'I can't go back?' I asked.

"'That's right, you can't go back.'

"'Back, as in the direction I can't go?'

"'That's right. back.'

"'Back, as in recede, regress, or retreat?'

"'That's right, back.'

"'Back, as in move back, fall back, or turn back?'

"'That's right, back.'

"'Back, as in moving in a reverse motion?'

"'That's right, back.'

"'Back, as in no longer being able to advance in a backwardly direction?'

"'That's right, back.'

"'Back, as in...'"

"Mom," I cut in.

"What?" she answers.

"You're rambling," I tell her.

"Oh," she tells me.

She searches for her point, and finds it. It had rolled under the mini-fridge.

"'Aren't you listening to me?' the receptionist finally asked me. I must admit I wasn't, but that didn't stop me from immediately agreeing to the condition and starting my long walk down that long hallway longingly. When I got to the first room, there was a sign on the door that said: 'Short, Fat, Ugly, Stupid, and Poor.' I shook my head in disgust. Even us hookers have standards. They just happen to be in the form of U.S. currency. So I walked to the second room. There was also a sign on the door. It said: 'Tall, Fat, Ugly, Stupid, and Poor.' Not my cup of tea, so I walked to the next room, and the third sign said: 'Tall, Fit, Ugly, Stupid, and Poor." Still, no sell. My nose itched. I scratched it, and then made my way a little further down the hall. The sign to the fourth room said: 'Tall, Fit, Handsome, Stupid, and Poor.' Hmm... _now _we were getting somewhere. I like my men like I like my coffee: stupid. But that poor thing. _Yeetch!_ I walked to the fifth room, and the sign on _that_ door said: 'Tall, Fit, Handsome, Smart, and Poor.' These were men who had everything I wanted in a man, except what I wanted most: money. So I threw caution to the wind and went straight to the sixth door. The sign there said: "Tall, Fit, Handsome, Smart, and Rich.' _Whew, finally! _I stood there for a second, wanting to go in. I almost felt like crying. In a moment all my dreams would come true, but... I could see a _final_ door at the end of the hallway. I decided to double-down and see what more I could get. So I walked the final few feet to the seventh door, turned the knob, and entered the room. Only it wasn't a room. It was the alley _behind_ the building. This time the sign was on the other side of the door. It read: 'This Proves That Women Are Never Satisfied.'"


	62. Chapter 22b

My mom was never in the Navy, but she was once an honorary member of the Sixth Fleet. They even voted her Miss Congeniality. She still has the trophy. To this day, whenever she has too much to drink the sailor in her comes out.

"See you later, Popeye," she'll say.

"Aye, aye, Brandy," he'll tell her. "You're a fine girl."

She likes to spend her off-time drinking grog, getting drunk, and singing drunken sailor songs.

_"Who's that knocking at my door? Who's that knocking at my door?_

_Who's that knocking at my door?" said the fair Young Maiden._

_"Well, I need the loo and then it's you!" said Barnacle Bill the Sailor._

Unfortunately, when I drink I have the bad habit of joining her. I put down my favorite book, a copy of _The Tale of Scrotie McBoogerballs_, and that's exactly what I do.

_"Are you young and handsome, sir? Are you young and handsome, sir?"_

_Are you young and handsome, sir?" said the fair Young Maiden._

_"Well, I'm rigid and rough and turgid and tough!" said Barnacle Bill the Sailor._

And together we annoy the other patrons in the bar with our singing of sea shanties and dancing of jigs.

_"What if I should lock the door? What if I should lock the door?_

_What if I should lock the door?" said the fair Young Maiden._

_"Well, I'll use my Glock to shoot the lock!" said Barnacle Bill the Sailor._

"Bartender!" my mother calls out. "Another pint of grog!"

_"What if my parents should come home? What if my parents come home?_

_What if my parents should come home?" said the fair Young Maiden._

_"Well, I'll kill your pa and then your ma!" said Barnacle Bill the Sailor._

Swinging our arms rhythmically from side to side, and hopping on our sea legs sideways from one end of the bar to the other and then back again, we were having a wonderful time.

_"Will you take me to the dance? Will you take me to the dance?_

_Will you take me to the dance?" said the fair Young Maiden._

_"Well, forget the dance and off with your pants!" said Barnacle Bill the Sailor._

The other first class passengers waiting with us are so entertained by our drunken shenanigans they complain to airport security, but we have our Get Out Of Jail card in the form of the sponsorship of one Christian Grey.

_"Will you vow to marry me? Will you vow to marry me?_

_Will you vow to marry me?" said the fair Young Maiden._

_"Well, first we bed then maybe we'll wed!" said Barnacle Bill the Sailor._

Some of the gentlemen passengers toss dollar bills up on the bar in encouragement, taking pictures of us with their smart phones.

"I'm gonna put this on Instagram," a stranger yells excitedly.

"Put _this_," my mother yells back, grabbing her crotch Michael Jackson-style. "_Wee-hee!_"

_"What's that thing between your legs? What's that thing between your legs?_

_What's that thing between your legs?" said the fair Young Maiden._

_"Well, first it swings and then it stings!" said Barnacle Bill the Sailor._

I've never had so much fun in my life. I wonder what Christian would think of me having so much fun. I think, to him, fun is an abstract concept, like an honest politician or military intelligence.

_"What if I should have a child? What if I should have a child?_

_What if I should have a child?" said the fair Young Maiden._

_"Well, I'll shove it back and that's a fact!" said Barnacle Bill the Sailor._

I know there's a human being in there somewhere, but first I'd have to peel back all his controlling issues, stalking tendencies, and perverting perversions.

_"What if you should go to jail? What if you should go to jail?_

_What if you should go to jail?" said the fair Young Maiden._

_"Well, I'll swing my balls and tear down the walls!" said Barnacle Bill the Sailor._

But right now, drink in my hand, I just wanted to dance my problems away and my inhibitions into hiding, so I did a two-step, quick-step, and a bossanova. A little Victor Sylvester and a Rudy Valentino. You should have seen me moving, right across the floor.

"Hand me down my tuxedo," my Inner Goddess salad dressing sang. "Next week I'm coming back for more."

_"What if you should get the gas? What if you should get the gas?_

_What if you should get the gas?" said the fair Young Maiden._

_"Well, I'll blow the gas right out my..."_

"_Hey!_" my mother yells over the noise. "I'm gonna work the crowd."

She jumps off the top of the bar, leaving me to do the Lindy Hop on my own. I decide this would be a good time to fire off a quick email to Christian on my iPhone. I used to own a Blackbury, but Apple offered me more money for product placement.

_Ana, _I tell myself, _you can never, ever tell Christian about this._

With a little arm-twisting, I agree.

I write:

_Hi, Christian. What are you doing?_

He writes back:

_Nothing. What are you doing?_

I tell him:

_Nothing. What are you doing?_

He tells me back:

_Nothing. What are you doing?_

_Nothing. What are you doing?_

_Nothing. What are you doing?_

_Nothing. What are you doing?_

_Nothing. What are you doing?_

_Nothing. What are you doing?_

_Nothing. What are you doing?_

I can't believe I'm over 400 pages into this story and this is where we're at.

_Where are you?_

I type, throwing caution to the wind. The wind throws it right back.

_Right behind you._

"_Cowabunga!_" I yelp.

And surf's not even up.


	63. 23a: Happy Halloween!

I glance nervously around and, sure enough, there he is.

"Ana, you look like you've just seen a ghost," my mother says, coming over, and, in her concern, passes out on the floor at my feet.

"Christian, this is my mother," I say, introducing the two of them. "She's not drunk, she's just resting her eyes."

"Should we move her someplace more comfortable?" Christian offers, helpfully.

I nudge her with my foot. Christian too.

"I think she'll be okay," I tell him and pick up my book from where I left it.

He looks at the cover.

"Ah," he says. "Leopold Stotch. His childhood nickname was Butters, you know."

I knew, but, like a good little girlfriend, I pretend I don't.

"I read his second novel, _The Poop That Took A Pee_, just after I flunked out of Pencey Prep, a preparatory school. It was the only thing I took with me. I read it while I was hanging aimlessly around the Dakota in New York."

"What did you think of it?"

His eyes grow dark.

"It inspired me to kill the phonies."

Hunh? Ah? Wha?

And then I remember his "dinner" with his "friend." That just brings my dander up all over again. I dust off my shoulder and say, "I thought you and your 'friend' would be out trick-or-treating or something."

"Please, Ana," he says, his voice becoming hard, "it's not like you caught me at London's _Cirque_ _Le Soir_. My 'friend' and I are just that: friends. What we had, we had years ago. She was having problems in her marriage, and I was having problems getting laid. Her husband was cheating on her with an intern at work, and we, ah, 'consoled' each other, but it never went any further than the physical. Now we're friends, and I'm grateful to her. She helped me start my first business, in fact. _Clips & Nips_, a topless barber shop. She saved me _from_ myself and introduced me _to_ myself."

"That's ridiculous," I tell him. "Only a crazy person has different 'selves.'"

My subconscious and inner goddess both nod their head in agreement.

"Aren't you at least going to tell me her real name?" I continue. "I'm tired of referring to her as Mrs. Robinson."

"All I can tell you, Ana, is to never see a physician by the name of Dr. Acula. All he ever wants to do is draw blood."

"I'm serious, Christian."

"So am I," he says, rubbing his neck.

"Please," I whine. "Please, please, please, please, _pleeeze_!"

"I'm afraid I can't."

"How about her first name? Surely, you can tell me that much."

"Well, I could, but not if you keep calling me 'Shirley.'"

I unleash my secret weapon: my pouty face. He finally gives in when I tilt my head pathetically.

"If you must know, her first name is Hillary and the reason I can't tell you her last name is because she's running for president."

My jaw drops to the floor, tripping a careless passerby. Surely, he can't mean...

"The last time we had sexual relations," he tells me, "we were in North Carolina for a weekend drive, just seeing the sights and stopping every now and then to 'scare the raccoons,' if you get my drift. Our fuel was low, so we stopped at a gas station. The attendant's name was Goober, at least according to the nametag stitched over the breast pocket of his uniform, and he asked us if we wanted the tank filled.

"'Yes," Hillary told him, 'and please check the fluid levels under the hood, as well as the air pressure on the tires. All four of them.'

"I laughed at her.

"'What are you laughing about?' she said, laughing too.

"'Well, I know you're married to the President of the United States of America, but what do you think would have happened if you had married Goober instead?' I asked, pointing to the attendant who was trying to figure out how to open the hood.

"Her look turned serious, and then she told me even more seriously, 'If I was married to Goober, then _he'd _be the President of the United States of America.'

"'Point taken,' I said, duly chastised. So you see, dear Ana, it wouldn't have worked out between us in a romantic way even if I wanted it to, which I didn't, as I've no interest in ever being the president. I couldn't afford the pay cut."

"Oh, that's a scary thought."

"What is?"

"You, as president."

"Is it really?" he says with a smirk.

"Yes, that thought's scarier than a haunted house."

Christian's smirk turns into a full-blown smile at that.

"What are you smiling at?" I ask him.

"That reminds me of my college years living in the dorm, when my friends and I would huddle around the Victrola crying to Judy Garland records. You see, the scariest haunted house I ever went to was on Halloween in Florida at the Chi Omega sorority house at FSU. I remember walking down the long hallway and each girl would open her bedroom door and tell me, 'Christian... I'm pregnant.' 'Christian... I'm pregnant.' 'Christian... I'm pregnant.' It was terrifying. I still have nightmares."

"What happened to those girls?"

"Sadly, my best friend Ted Bundy broke into the sorority house the following January and solved the problem for me."

He curls his forefinger up and down.

"Redrum," he says.


	64. Chapter 23b

Christian's nostrils flare. His voice becomes husky with hunger. I'm hungry, too, but in a different way. I wonder what Ronald McDonald is doing?

"I want you, Ana," he tells me, stepping over my mother. "I want you bad. And I have to have you. I have to have you _now_."

With that declaration, Christian snaps his fingers. Crockett appears from the ether and quickly empties the room of all the excess first class air passengers. Some of them have to be encouraged with a swift kick from his Gucci loafers. Funny, I never noticed before that he didn't wear socks.

When it's only me, Christian, and my unconscious mother, Crockett walks over to the wall behind the mini-fridge and pushes. _Osh kosh_ _b'gosh!_ It's a false wall, and on the other side is a bedroom.

"How did you know?" I ask Christian.

"How did I know what?" Christian replies, coyly.

"How did you know there would be a bedroom behind that wall?"

"I had it built, knowing that you would be here," he explains. "Just in case you feel the need to make the beast with two backs."

It's my turn to be coy.

"The beast with two _whats_?"

"Two backs. You know, bump _uglies_."

"Bump _what_?"

"Bump _uglies_. You know, riding the _baloney pony_."

"Riding the _baloney pony_?" I rinse, lather, and repeat. I didn't know Christian could be so romantic.

Gosh, I don't know _what_ to think. On the one hand, I want Christian so bad I wish I could come up with a clever metaphor that's both original and funny. On the other hand, it goes against everything I was raised to believe in. I can remember the Reverend Pryor, even now, reading in church from the Book of Wonder.

"'If you believe in things,'" he thundered from his altar, "'that you don't understand, then you'll suffer. Superstition _ain't_ the way!'"

Oh, it was _superstition_ he was talking about, not sex. I guess that makes it okay. I follow Christian into the room. It's a huge round room with a huge round bed in the middle of the huge round room. There's a fish tank in the corner. Um, I mean if a round room can _have _corners. I bet in quantum physics it can.

"Why a fish tank?" I ask, curious.

"I like to have an audience," he explains. "It adds a little spice to the proceedings. I'm old-school, Ana. In my day, we didn't even have Viagra. You actually had to be attracted to a girl to have sex with her."

"Are we going to do it doggy-style?"

"With you, Ana, _every_ style is doggy-style."

"That is _so_ rude."

"What do you mean? I _love_ dogs."

With that he flops me backward onto the bed.

Finally, what I've been waiting for, the big sex scene of the book. Maybe this time I'll even get some foreplay. My Inner Goddess rubs her hands briskly together in antici... _PAY_shun. I remember asking Kate what foreplay was once.

"You know that vague feeling of dissatisfaction you get when you're hungry for something but you don't know what?" she said, answering my question with a question of her own. "You eat this and you eat that, but somehow it's never what you want?"

"Only all the time," I admitted.

"Well, it's kind of like that, just not as exciting. What foreplay is, is laying back and pretending to enjoy your lover's bumbling fumbles or fumbling bumbles, I forget which, but that doesn't matter. What matters is I usually like to take this time to paint my nails."

So that exactly what I do, lay back.

I see his head disappear between my legs. When it reappears a few minutes later, he looks like the Joker from _The Dark Knight Returns_. There was something very important I should have warned him about, but he doesn't seem to mind the surprise. He emerges holding a vampire's tea-bag. He twirls it over his head and makes helicopter noises. Then, when he lets go of the string, we watch it fly across the room, hitting the wall with a wet _smack_.

Well, first we carve a slice, then we cut the mustard, then we dip the schnitzel. After that we do the humpty-hump, the bumpity-bump, and the ziggity-zag. Then we grind the coffee, haul our ashes, and lay some pipe. He parks the pink Cadillac, hides the salami, and gets it up to the nuts in guts. He spears the bearded clam, the hairy donut, and the fuzzy wuzzy. Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear. Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair. Wuzzy wasn't fuzzy, was he?

Amazingly, we finish at the same time. Him, having his way with me, and me, painting my nails. We lay there looking into each other's eyes.

"What?" I ask, smiling shyly.

"What?" he asks back, his eyes dancing.

"Tell me about yourself," I say.

Strangely enough, he does. I'm not saying he puts me to sleep with his long ramblings. He does, but I'm not saying that. When I wake up, he's getting ready to leave.

"Your mother is quite lovely," he tells me on his way out. "Especially her breasts. When I saw her for that brief instant falling to the floor, they looked like two meteors racing toward the earth."

Um... _that_ was awkward.

No sooner is he out the door, than my mother finally rouses out of her coma. I'm not saying she drinks a lot, but you can go to the bathroom with her and be able to tell what yesterday's drink specials were.

She gets up, looking in the distance, probably wondering what other career paths she could have chosen. My mother. Just because she's hairy, that doesn't make her Bigfoot.

"I'm so sorry, Ana," she tells me. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"That's okay, mom," I say, excusing her the way I have my entire life. "I thought you were meditating."

"I don't meditate, I medicate," she corrects me. "Did I miss anything important while I was going toward the light?"

"Oh, mom," I tell her, "you just missed _him_."

"Him?"

"Yes, _him._"

"Him who?"

""Christian."

"_Christian?_"

"Yes, my boyfriend."

"Your _boyfriend?"_

"Yes, he was just here."

"He was just _here?_"

"Yes, and you missed him."

"And I _missed_ him?"

"Yes."

"Like the way I've missed all your _other_ 'boyfriends'?"

"Almost, but this one is real."

"Sure he is, honey. Sure he is."


	65. Chapter 24a

"But really, mom, there's a room right behind this wall," I tell my mother as I huff and puff and fail to move the false wall that Crockett so easily opened.

"Try saying 'open sesame,'" she offers helpfully. "Or 'open, sez _ME!_'"

"Oh, mother," I say, getting frustrated. "The wall slides right open, I just need to find the switch or the handle or whatever."

"Sure, you do, honey," she answers, sympathetically. "Sure, you do."

I finally give up and crumple sadly to the floor.

"I should have paid more attention," I say, more to myself than to my mother.

"In school?" my mother asks. "Or just life in general?"

She pauses, and then her mothering instinct must kick in, because she tells me, "Ana, your boyfriend, if he really does exist, seems like a nice guy for someone I never met. He _is _a nice guy, isn't he? He didn't molest me while I was unconscious, did he?"

"No," I assure her.

"Well, I won't hold that against him. A real gentleman would have shown me the courtesy of an enthusiastic grope. Anyway, you should go after him."

"After him?" I repeat, mulling the idea over in my mind. "You really think so, mom?"

"Of course I do. You only live once, honey. After all, we don't want you to end up like those two old drunks over there."

I look, but I don't see who she's talking about.

"Which two?"

"_Those _two," she says and points across the room from us.

"That's a mirror you're looking at, mom," I tell her. "But if I go, what will you do?"

"Don't you worry about me. If there's one thing your mother knows, it's how to take care of herself. I wonder what Bill Cosby is up to? Now _that_ guy knows how to treat a lady."

I think about the sweet time Christian and I spent in the round room, laying in each other's round arms in the round bed. Hmm... have you ever noticed how most foods are round? Round eggs, round berries, round pancakes. Waffles are round, but in a square kind of way. Cupcakes are round, muffins are round, manhole covers are round. Donuts are round.

Mmm... donuts.

I don't mean to make you blush, but a man's penis is long and round. Long, I guess, if you're lucky. Although I've heard that girth is more important than length. Kate told me that.

"Girth is more important than length," she said, and then reminded me to not forget the cucumbers on my way home from the grocery store. "I want to make my special salad."

Funny, in all the time we've been roommates, I've never seen her prepare anything in the kitchen, much less a salad.

A woman's vagina is long and round, too, but in a different way. It's an emptiness that goes inward, rather than a fullness that goes outward.

Hmm... fullness.

If you're lucky, I guess.

Just after our decadent time in the circular room of roundness, Christian fell to sleep for a few minutes. Jokingly, I took the blue ribbon I was wearing in my hair and wrapped it around his yankee doodle dandy. I tied it in a nice bow. When he woke up a few minutes later, he looked down and slyly commented, "I don't know where I've been, but it would seem I won First Place while I was there."

"Tell me about yourself," I coaxed, and he did. He told me how his first job was at McDonald's.

"I was in charge of putting the sesame seeds on their hamburger buns," he said. "I would take a tiny brush, and spread a glue-like substance on one side of the sesame seed and then stick it to the top of the bun. After that I tried a career in law enforcement. I was the head security guard at Jamba Juice. So you see, Ana, Mrs. Robinson really did save me from myself."

_Uhg_... there's that name again. Mrs. Robinson. I don't know why he calls her that. I guess, because _I_ do.

I drift off, and when I come back to the surface of consciousness I hear him say, "Pope Francis, or Frankie 'Five Fingers,' as we used to call him in the old neighborhood..." I drift off again. "My father always told me I had rocks in my head," I hear from someplace far away, "and my mother always told me knowledge was more valuable than gold, ergo rocks must be more valuable than gold. That's how I made my first million. With rocks." It's like I'm floating down a river, occasionally touching the shore of consciousness, which is a lot like the _surface_ of consciousness, except it's on the side and not on top.

"I threw the football and hit the referee square in the head," Christian's words float somewhere above me.

"Did the ref go down?" I asked, dreamily.

"I'm not taking about his private life."

"I mean, did it knock him to the ground?"

"Yes, so I flipped him over and he woke up to find his pants missing."

"I see," I said, but I didn't. Not really. I was off once again to Slumberville. That's right next to Lidsville.

"It was the saddest day of my life," I heard him say in the distance and brought myself back to the conservatory of consciousness to conscientiously hear what he was saying of consequence.

"What was?"

"Aren't you listening to me, Ana? You're the only one I've ever told any of this to."

"Really?"

"Yes. Only you. You and my bodyguard Crockett. He needs to know these kind of things."

"Just me and Crockett?"

"Yes, just you and Crockett. And Doobie. You and Crocket and Doobie, that's all. And my receptionist, she knows too. You, Crockett, Doobie, my receptionist, and my parents. As well as my maid and cook. You and Crockett and Doobie, my receptionist, my parents, my maid, and my cook."

"That's everyone?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. Donna, Jean, and Little Missy, I told them, too. That's everyone."

"Everyone?"

"Yes, everyone. Everyone, except for the President of the United States of America, that is. I told him back in the first chapter. That's why you saw him crying when he left my office, how sad that day was."

"How sad what day was?"

"That day."

"Which day?"

"That day."

"That day, when I saw the President of the United States of America leaving your office?"

"No, I'm talking about the saddest day of my life."

"What happened?"

"What happened what?"

"What happened on the saddest day of your life?"

"I thought we were talking about the President of the United States of America."

"You were about to tell me what happened on the saddest day of your life."

"Oh... _that_ day. I've never told anybody about it."

"You can tell me," I suggest softly.

"I had a twin brother, Ana. His name was Billie Joe, and I say 'had,' because he committed suicide."

"Oh, my goodness."

"Goodness had nothing to do with it. It was a girl. Maybe that's why I find myself so disconnected from women and feel the need to punish them. It was the third of June, another sleepy, dusty, Delta day. We were out chopping cotton and that girl's brother was baling hay. And at dinner time we stopped and walked back to the house to eat. And her mama hollered out the back door, 'Y'all remember to wipe your feet.' And then she said, 'I got some news this morning from Choctaw Ridge,' but she must have decided to break the bad news more gently, because she seemed to change the subject. She said, 'Everybody who doesn't have a brother who killed himself jumping off the Tallahatchie Bridge, take a step forward.' As I was about to step forward, she held up a hand. 'Not so fast, Christian,' she told me."

"Zzzzzzzzzz..._ack!_"

"So, you go over the rainbow," my mother is telling me, "to Sugarcandy Mountain, or wherever it is you need to go, to find your boyfriend, Ana. You go, and, when you find him, you tell him, 'We believe in you, Carlton...'"

"Christian."

"...Christian. We believe in you."

That is all the encouragement I need, and I run off to find Carlton... I mean, Christian. I catch up with him just outside, on the airport's tarmac. He's preparing to leave.

"What the heck is _that?_" I ask him, my mouth agape.

"Ana!" Christian calls out, and I can see that he's surprised and actually happy to see me. "You came after me!"

It's a statement, but it sounds more like a question that's already been answered, which it has. I mean, I'm _standing_ right there.

I'm standing, because I've stopped in my tracks. He holds out his hand to me.

I don't know. I'm not sure.

"What the heck is _that?_" I say again.

"It's a hot air balloon, Ana," he explains. "It's the _only_ way to fly."


	66. Chapter 24b

The hot air balloon is a big beautiful beast, with the words "State Fair" above the name "Omaha" emblemed on the side, if "emblem" can be used as a verb and a circular object can be said to have a side. It has an inside and outside, I guess. In which case, it's on the outside.

Christian offers me his hand, inviting me to join him. The basket floats just above the ground by about a foot or two. I take Christian's hand and step aboard. My added weight causes the basket of the hot air balloon to touch down on the earth with a soft thud.

_Thump!_

I said "thud."

_Thud!_

I see Crockett handling the burner, which heats the air until it causes the envelope to raise heavenward. The envelope is the actual balloon part of the hot air balloon, and the basket can also be referred to as a gondola. That's _Mister _Gondola, to you.

"Let's do it," Christian says, looking at me but talking to Crockett.

"Okay, boss," Crockett says, and gives the burner a boost.

Slowly, the magnificent beast defies gravity and pulls away from the earth. It lifts us higher and higher into the atmosphere. I look over the edge of the basket, and see the airport growing tinier and tinier beneath me, the people looking like ants. Ants with arms and walking on two legs, that is.

"Do you feel reckless?" Christian asks me, with a mischievous grin on his face.

"You bet I do, boss," Crockett answers.

"Not you, you idiot," Christian barks at his right-hand man. "I'm talking to Ana."

"You bet I do, Christian," I answer.

"Not you, Ana," he tells me. "Can't you see I'm talking to Crockett? Can't _anyone_ follow a simple conversation?"

Neither of us say anything.

"That's an open question," Christian enlightens us. "Either of you can answer."

Crockett answers by goosing the burner even more.

I answer by moving closer to him.

"_I_ feel reckless," I whisper seductively, feeling the warmth of his body. I had always heard about the mile-high club. I wonder if this is what Christian has in mind. With _Crockett_ right there? Oh my, that _would_ be naughty.

Christian reaches down and pulls out something long and hard.

A bungee cord.

He secures it around his feet, opens the gate to the gondola, and dives off the side in an Olympic-quality exemplification of bungee jumping. When he reaches the end of the bungee cord's elasticity, it snaps him back, and he sticks a graceful three-point landing any Russian gymnast would be proud of.

"Your turn," he tells me, as he removes the bungee cord from around his ankles.

Uh, uh. No way. I'm _against_ euthanasia, and I'm not talking about Chinese children.

"No," I tell him

"You won't believe how exhilarating it is..."

"No."

"...or how alive you'll feel..."

"No."

"...when you stare death in the eyes and laugh in its face."

"How many times do I have to tell you..."

"There will be a Hostess Twinkie waiting for you when you get back," he bribes.

What can I say, his bribing works. If bungee jumping doesn't make me feel more alive, the Twinkie sure will. Do you know what I like most about Hostess Twinkies? There's _two_ of them. And I'm not just saying that because of all the free Twinkies the company is paying me with for product placement.

"I just need to know how much you weigh."

"Er... _wha?_"

"Your weight. I need to know how much you weigh so I can choose the proper length of cord."

"Aren't they all the same?"

"Of course not, Ana. You do understand physics, don't you?"

If I wanted to understand physics, I wouldn't have slept through my classes in college.

"_Mumble, mumble, mumble,_" I mumble.

"What, Ana? I couldn't hear you, you've got to speak up."

I think about it. Control freak that he is, he'll never stop pestering me. So, should I tell him in pounds, in stones, or use the metric system? I decide to go with pounds. It sounds thinner.

"Good girl," he says, and chooses the proper length of cord.

He secures one end to my ankles, and double-checks that the other end is attached properly to the gondola. He must really care for me, if he takes the time and effort to make sure I don't die a horrible death.

"Make me proud," he says.

"I will, boss," Crockett answers.

I do a graceful swan dive off the side of the basket in an attempt to impress Christian, and my body cuts through the brisk air like cold steel. I drop toward the ground faster than Bill Clinton's pants at the Miss Arkansas pageant. I feel so free as I plummet toward the earth, so... _alive_. Darn that Christian, it _is _exhilarating. I wish I could fall forever, like that Chinese girl at the end of _Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon_, and I'm not just saying that because Ang Lee promised me a part in his next movie.

The bungee cord stretching, stretching, stretching...

_WHAM!_

My face slams into the ground.

_I shouldn't have lied about my weight_, I think to myself.

There's a pause, and then the cord snaps back up with a force so great my head hits the bottom of the basket. Which forces me to go down, and not in the fun way, again hitting the ground. I leave an imprint this time of my nose, eyes, and open mouth.

Bo-_iiiiing!_

I shoot back up. There's a dent where my head had hit before. I leave another one. I keep slamming up and down, up and down. Oh my goobers, it seems like it's _never_ going to end.

Basket! Ground! Basket! Ground!

_WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!_

By the grace of Lord Xenu, one of Newton's Laws of Motion finally kicks in and I find myself just dangling by the bungee cord off the side of the hot air balloon.

"Ana!" I hear Christian call from above. "Are you okay?"

I'm too stunned to answer. Also, the chunk of grass stuffed into my mouth like a good sex act gone bad doesn't help. I feel the cord being tugged on above me, but, between Crockett and Christian, they're unable to pull me up.

"Doobie!" Christian calls out, his voice in a panic.

A whiff of burning herbs whooshes past me, the pungent smell lingering.

"Yes, Harry?" a familiar voice slurs. He must pause to look around, because he says, "Talk about being high."

I can almost picture Doobie's moist, round eyes blinking in the high altitude.

Christian ignores Doobie's _faux pas_ with his name, and quickly commands, "Quick, Doobie, get Ana!"

"Yes, you four-eyed _mumble, mumble, mumble._"

There's another pause. Then I hear Doobie take a deep drag from one of his special hand-rolled cigarettes.

"_Liftus elephantus!_" he exhales.

Somehow, I find myself back in the basket. I look around and see only Crockett and Christian.

"Are you okay, Ana?" Christian asks, concern in his eyes. With a gentlemanly swipe of his sleeve, he wipes the green gobs of concern away.

I spit out the chunk of real estate from my mouth...

_Spit! Spit! Spit!_

...and assure Christian that I am.

There's such loving concern in his eyes, as he gently cleans the dirt from my face.

"You've soiled yourself," he tells me.

"Trust me, that's not soil," I tell him back, wrinkling my nose.


	67. 24c: Happy Thanksgiving!

"I'm famished," Christian declares decaratively.

Me, too. Although you wouldn't think so, after my having just ingested a mouthful of dirt. Somehow, I had always thought dirt and grass and grubs would be more filling, but it's not. Like Chinese food, after a half hour I'm hungry again.

"Would you like something international or something a bit more continental?" he says, giving me a choice.

I look around. This close to the airport, I see nothing but hotels and an IHOP.

_An IHOP?_

Hmmm...

"I'm in the mood for something continental," I tell him, remembering how, when he told me he was taking me to a world-famous restaurant, we ended up at McDonald's.

He didn't lie, I guess.

Immediately, he pulls off the road and into the driveway of one of those hotels.

Did I mention we were in his car? Well, we are. For the sake of the story, just go with it.

He finds a parking space close to the entrance, hangs his "handicap" placard on his rear-view mirror, and we exit the car and enter the hotel.

We walk briskly through the lobby, holding hands. He's a step or two ahead of me and is anxiously pulling me along. My, but my naughty boyfriend seems to be in a hurry. A certain part of my body tingles at the thought of what he's in the mood to eat.

"Just pretend we're staying here," he tells me.

I'm not sure I understand what he means, until he leads me into a dining area, of sorts.

"You're bringing me to the hotel's _free _continental breakfast?" I ask in surprise.

"Hey," he says, "I didn't get rich by being wasteful. Besides, you're the one who said she was in the mood for something continental."

I couldn't argue with his logic. It was irrefutable.

His eyes were sparkling, like his skin in direct sunlight. I've never seen him this happy, this giddy, and it's a joy to behold, as opposed to beehive. My eyes are probably sparkling, too, as I see food from one end of the room to the other.

"And it's all free," Christian agrees.

In the middle of it all is a giant cornucopia laying on its side with fruits and vegetables and grains pouring out of it. I pick up a corn-on-the-cob and begin to eat.

"That's plastic," Christian tells me, and he's right.

_Delicious_ plastic.

"Here," he says, again taking my hand, "let me show you around. Oh, look, Ana. Eggs!"

I've never seen anyone get so excited about eggs, unless you want to count Harry Fierstein. Christian continues.

"What makes them continental is that they're hard-boiled. Any hack can scramble two eggs together, but to hard-boil them properly, it takes an _artist_. And look at how many different kinds of cereal they have. Wow! _Frosted Flakes!_ Look, Ana, they even have high-fiber cereal, if you're into that kind of thing."

I don't know what kind of thing he means, but I'm sure I'm not.

"And if you're so inclined, you can make your own waffles over there, by the bagels and cream cheese. Excuse me, my dear, while I indulge help myself to some of this yogurt."

As he starts to slurp, I look around. The dining area has a nice Pilgrim-like theme to it. A turkey here, some corn-stalks there, and pumpkins scattered all around. There's even a girl dressed as a Native American helping people at the waffle station. She looks Latina or Hispanic. It might sound racist, but I can't tell them apart.

"She's an Indian," Christian says in his typical un-p.c.-like way.

"No, she's not," I tell him.

"Yes, she is."

"No, she's not," I insist.

"Yes, she is."

"Indians are from India," I say, correcting him.

"Be that as it may, she's still an Indian."

Christian is such a control freak that I'm determined to prove him wrong. I go up to the girl.

"Excuse me," I say, by way of introduction, "do you speak English?"

"_Si_," she says.

"And do you work here?

"_Si._"

"In the kitchen?"

"_Si_."

"Can I ask you a silly question?"

"_Si._"

"Are you supposed to be an Indian?"

"_Si_."

"Really? What kind?"

"_Sioux._"

"Sioux?"

"_Si_."

"See?" Christian tells me, and he leads me to a table where he's already served the two of us.

My, how thoughtful he can be when he wants to be. Thoughtful, that is.

"You are so unpredictable, Mr. Grey," I tell him.

"That's only because I am, Miss Steele" he tells me back.

"This has been a wonderful day," I tell him.

"I know it has," he tells me back.

"Thank you," I tell him,

He looks at me intently.

"No, Ana," he tells me back, taking my hand in his, "thank _you._"


	68. Chapter 24d & 25a

I don't know how he knows, but he knows.

Under Christian's guidance, Crockett lands the hot-air balloon right in front of my mother's house.

"Would you like to come in for a bit?" I ask Christian.

"Yes," he answers.

"Really?" I squeal in happiness.

"No," he says.

With that, the hot air balloon starts to rise, taking my boyfriend _par ardua ad alta_ upon a hazardous and technically unexplainable journey into the outer stratosphere. Christian looks at Crockett, who looks back at Christian. Crockett raises his shoulders in the international sign of I-Don't-Know-What-Just-Happened-Boss.

"This is a highly irregular procedure! This is absolutely unprecedented!" Christian declares, as he falls upward into the distance. "And it ruined my exit!"

My mother and step-father run outside to see what all the hub-bub is about. Seeing Christian, they wave goodbye.

"Who's that?" my step-father asks my mother.

"I have no idea," my mother answers back.

"Oh, come back!" I cry to the wind. "Don't go without me! Please come back!"

"I can't come back!" Christian cries out, too. He looks at Crockett, who again gives him a shrug of helplessness, as opposed to a shrug of helpfulness. "I don't know how it works!"

"Oh," I cry out in disappointment.

Using his middle fingers, Christian gives the thumbs-up sign with both hands to my parents and the rest of those of their neighbors who've come out of their trailers to see if the government was handing out free cheese again.

"Goodbye, folks!" Christian says, waving.

They all wave back.

"Goodbye! Goodbye!" they say to the man floating away in the balloon.

"Mother?"

"Yes, Ana?"

"Christian won't be staying for dinner," I tell her.

"No kidding," she says. "Well, that's okay. It gives you and me a little mother/daughter time together. What would you like?"

"Believe it or not," I tell her, "I'd like a proper cup of coffee from a proper coffeepot. Tin coffeepots or iron coffeepots, they're of no use to me, so I'll have a proper cup of coffee in a proper coffeepot, or I'll have a cup of tea."

"Sounds like just what the doctor ordered," she tells me. "Do you suppose when a doctor gets sick and another doctor doctors him, does the doctor doing the doctoring have to doctor the doctor the way the doctor being doctored wants to be doctored, or does the doctor doing the doctoring of the doctor doctor the doctor as he wants to do the doctoring?"

"Some biscuits would be nice," I say, purposely ignoring her blatherings.

"Why, isn't that a coincidence," she tells me. "I bought a bit of baking powder and baked a batch of biscuits. I brought a big basket of biscuits back to the bakery and baked a basket of big biscuits. Then I took the big basket of biscuits and the basket of big biscuits and mixed the big biscuits with the basket of biscuits that was next to the big basket and put a bunch of biscuits from the basket into a biscuit mixer and brought the basket of biscuits and the box of mixed biscuits and the biscuit mixer to the bakery, and then I made a pot of coffee in a proper coffeepot."

I don't know what's gotten into my mother, so I say, "That's nice, mom," and get on my phone to send Christian a quick text.

"How's the weather up there?" I type.

From: Chistian Grey

To: Anastasia Steele

_Whether the weather be fine or whether the weather be not, whether the weather be cold or whether the weather be hot, I'll weather the weather, whatever the weather, whether I like it or not._

"What's that contraption, dear?" my mother asks, looking at the rectangular object in my hand.

"It's a phone, mom," I tell her.

"Oh, sure it is, dearie," she says. "Sure it is. And did one of your imaginary boyfriends give it to you?"

"As a matter of fact..." I begin, but my mother interrupts.

"You know, it's so good you're here," she tells me. "We haven't talked in ages and have so much to catch up on. I can't wait to..."

"In a minute, mom," I say, typing off another text to Christian.

From: Anastasia Steele

To: Christian Grey

_Where are you now?_

From: Christian Grey

To: Anastasia Steele

_We've caught a bit of a tailwind. We're practically in India now._

"Indianapolis?" I type.

"No," Christian types back.

_Indianapolis isn't in India, Ana. Indians are in India and Indians are in Indiana, but the Indian Indians and the Indiana Indians aren't identical Indians. The Indians in India are Indian Indians and the Indians in Indiana are indigenous Indians._

"Come sit at the table with me, Ana," my mom interrupts again. "I'm so anxious to talk with you."

"Sure, mom," I assure her. "After this."

From: Anastasia Steele

To: Christian Grey

_I miss you so much, Christian, I'd be with you right now, if I could._

"Yes, Ana," Christian writes back, "I would be with you too, if only I hadn't dropped you off at that homeless shelter."

"_Homeless shelter?_" I write back. "That was my _mother's_ house!"

"Of course it was, Ana," Christian writes. "Of course it was."

"Oh, Ana," my mother interjects, "you being here is such a blessing to me."

"What did you say, mom?" I ask, as I get right back on my phone to fire off another message to Christian.

From: Anastasia Steele

To: Christian Grey

_You're not judging me by where my parents live, are you Christian?_

From: Christian Grey

To: Anastasia Steele

_A gentle judge judges justly, Ana. A gentle judge judges justly._

From: Anastasia Steele

To: Christian Grey

_Grrrrr!_

From: Christian Grey

To: Anastasia Steele

_Are you growling at me, Miss Steele? I possess a cat of my own for growlers. Come to think of it, I haven't seen Fluffy lately. I wonder where she's off to?_

From: Anastasia Steele

To: Christian Grey

_Um, gotta go. I can't wait to talk with my mom._

"Understood," Christian types back and signs off.

**Chapter 25a**

"_Now _can we talk, Ana?"

"Sorry, mom," I say. "Gotta go."


	69. 25b: Merry Christmas!

I make my way to the bus stop, although "bus stop" is a bit of a misnomer. El Paso is building a trolley system it doesn't need for people who don't want it. Today, however, it comes in handy.

I sit on the bench and wait for the trolley to make its stop. And I wait. And I wait. I don't know what's taking so long.

From: Christian Grey

To: Anastasia Steele

_It's because the trolley system is under construction, as in "not finished yet."_

Christian informs me, when I write him on my DingleBerry to complain. And then he writes:

_Stay where you are. I'll send Crockett right over._

From: Anastasia Steele

To: Christian Grey

_But I don't know where I'm at._

"Not a problem," Christian writes, and then signs off.

Well, I guess I'll be here for an even longer while than I've already been here already. There's no way Crockett will be able to find me in a city this large. It would be like finding the proverbial needle in the proverbial haystack proverbially. My stomach rumbles. I should have eaten something. I'm in for a long wait.

Crockett pulls up and stops right in front of me.

"Need a ride, Miss Steele?"

I just sit there, mouth agape.

"How did you find me?" I ask him, stupefied.

"Your GPS transmitter," he tells me, quite matter-of-factly.

"My GPS transmitter? I don't have a GPS transmitter," I say.

"Sure you do," he insists. "Christian had it inserted one night when you were... _Hey! Look at that!_"

"Look at what?"

"Oh, nothing. Now, if you'll excuse me, Miss Steele, I have to concentrate on my driving."

"Please, Crockett. Call me Ana."

"No."

"Okay."

Twenty-five minutes later, he drops me off at Christian's. Christian's back is to me and I can see that he is on an important business call.

"_Our_ Joe wants to know," I overhear him saying, "if _your_ Joe will lend _our_ Joe _your_ Joe's banjo. If _your_ Joe won't lend _our_ Joe _your_ Joe's banjo, _our_ Joe won't lend _your_ Joe _our_ Joe's banjo..." Christian turns around and sees me. He smiles. "...when _our_ Joe has a banjo."

He pauses and listens, all the while his eyes not leaving mine.

"Well, keep me informed!" he yells, and hangs up.

Putting down the phone, he walks over and takes me in his arms.

"I missed you," he tells me.

"I missed _you_," I tell him.

"I missed you more," he tells me back.

"I missed _you_ more," I tell him back.

"No, I missed you more."

"No, I missed _you_ more."

"No, I did."

"No, _I_ did."

"I did."

"_I_ did."

"No, me."

"No, _me_."

Hmm... maybe I should cut to the future by about a half hour. The thing about dating a Control Freak is that they always have to get the last word, and ding-dang-doodle if I'll let them.

"Shower with me, Ana."

"I haven't showered with another person since I was a toddler and my step-father was babysitting a cousin of mine. We both needed a bath, so my step-father filled up the bathtub with Mr. Bubble, sat my cousin in front of the TV set, and jumped into the tub with me. I guess that's more of a bath than a shower."

"Is that a yes or a no?"

"Are you saying I need a shower?"

"I was trying not to."

"You could have just said something."

"I thought it would be more romantic if I asked you to shower with me."

He undresses me, and then himself. Naked, we walk into the shower together. We get stuck in the entrance, which wasn't built to accommodate two people entering at the same time. The shower is nothing but white and stainless steel.

"You know what I like about stainless steel?" Christian asks me.

"What?"

"No stains."

"You mean like dirt and grime?"

"Those, too."

"You never struck me as a soap-on-a-rope kind of man, Mr. Grey," I tease him when I see a longer-than-it-is-wide soap dangling on a rope from the shower head.

"Put your hands on the wall, Anastasia, and I'll show you what this soap-on-a-rope is for."

Squeaky clean, we exit the shower. Christian goes into his room to dress, and I go into mine. Did I tell you Christian gave me my own room in his house? If I didn't, pretend that I did.

Once dressed, I am supposed to meet Christian in his Red Room of Pain. I have to tell you, I am _very _nervous. I haven't told Christian, but I'm allergic to pain. I get these red welts on my body when I'm hit.

I go into the Red Room of Pain and kneel by the door, as instructed. My heart is in my mouth. I wonder what else I'll have in my mouth before the night is through.

Christian comes in. He's dressed in a tuxedo. My, but he looks devilishly handsome.

"You look lovely," he tells me.

I blush, but, of course, he doesn't see it. Christian is not one to notice such things.

"Stand up," he orders.

I get shakily to my feet. I have no idea what I'm in for tonight.

He presses a button on the stereo. I guess he likes to have music playing while he does whatever it is that he does. I wonder what will play. _Bolero_ by Ravel? _Principles of Lust_ by Enigma? _Deep Forest_ by, um, Deep Forest? No, what comes on surprises the crap out of me. It's _You Don't Know Me_.

Christian takes my hand in his as Ray Charles begins to sing.

_You give your hand to me  
>And then you say hello<br>And I can hardly speak  
>My heart is beating so<br>And anyone can tell  
>You think you know me well<br>But you don't know me_

Holding me close, we begin to dance. With a firm hand at the small of my back, he guides me from side to side, slowly, each of us melting into the other.

_No, you don't know the one  
>Who dreams of you at night<br>And longs to kiss your lips  
>Longs to hold you tight<br>Oh, I am just a friend  
>That's all I've ever been<br>'Cause you don't know me_

We sway rhythmically in each other's arms. I bury my face in the nape of his neck. He smells heavenly.

_I never knew the art of making love  
>No, my heart aches with love for you<br>Afraid and shy__I let my chance go by  
>The chance that you might love me, too<em>

I can feel the warmth of his body and the strength of his arms. Our movements are so in sync with each other. I wish this dance would last forever, but I know it can't.

_You give your hand to me  
>And then you say goodbye<br>I watch you walk away_

_Beside the lucky guy  
>Oh, you will never know<br>The one who loves you so  
>Well, you don't know me<em>

The song comes to an end. We stand there, both afraid to move. He doesn't seem to want to let me go. He brings his face in close to mine.

"Why, Ana," he whispers in my ear, "you're blushing."


	70. Chapter 26a

I wake with a Jolt.

That's a high-energy soda made by the fine people at Coca Cola, and I'm not just saying that because they promised to hook me up with a lifetime supply of lard. It's highly caffeinated, and so am I. Which is why I probably dreamt...

I was dreaming, and in my dream I was falling down an up escalator. It took me an hour and a half to reach the bottom. As I was bouncing upward off of the moving stairs, I remember thinking, "Haven't I already written this before?" But it doesn't matter, because, even if I have, I'm writing it again. When I finally hit the bottom, I bolt upright in Christian's bed. Am I a woman in Christian's bed who dreamt I was falling down an up escalator? Or am I a woman falling down an up escalator dreaming that I'm in Christian's bed?

I start to get up. Well, isn't that odd. My panties are down around my ankles. I wonder how _that_ happened. I look around suspiciously for Bill Cosby. When I don't see him, I pull them from the top back up to where they should be, up around my armpits. I get up to open the bedroom window for some fresh air. We're twenty stories up, and the view is magnificent. As I turn to walk back to bed I stop suddenly in my tracks.

_Fluffy!_

Somehow that cute little mangy cat survived being crushed by the giant penny and being smashed by the heavy mechanical foot of the gigantic robotic dinosaur.

"Meow," Fluffy purrs, sitting on my bed.

With her little paw, she gently pushes a little red ball towards me. I immediately recognize it from the photo shoot Kate and Jose had with Christian at the beginning of this book. Ah, good times.

"Meow."

"Oh, you want to play?" I ask the cat, so happy she's alive.

"Meow," the cat answers.

I pick up the ball and bounce it gingerly to the foot of the bed. The cat pounces and, carrying it in her mouth, brings it back to me. Oh, how cute. I've never known a cat that could play fetch. I pick up the ball again and toss it across the room. Fluffy pounces again, jumping energetically off the bed, and once again retrieves the ball for me.

"Meow," Fluffy says, with a tone of challenge in her voice.

"Oh, you want to play some more?" I ask her playfully, but rising to the challenge.

"Meow."

"Well, let's see what you can do," I say, and give the ball a hard toss. It bounces off the wall, hits the night table, and flies out the open window with Fluffy close behind.

"_FLUFFY!_"

"Me-_oooooooooooooooooooow!_" I hear Fluffy howl down the twenty stories to the sidewalk.

I look guiltily around for Christian. Fortunately, he's not there. That's when I hear music playing in the distance. Someone is playing the piano and playing it beautifully, I might add. Since it's just me and Christian, I'm pretty sure it's not me.

The music reminds me that I'm famished. Well, not really, but I am. Famished, that is. I put on my bathrobe, then wander quietly in the direction of the kitchen. To get to the kitchen I have to pass the great room, which is a name as well as an accurate description. When I first saw it, I thought to myself, "Now THAT'S a great room." Unfortunately, the great room is where the music seems to be emanating from. I take a peek around the corner and see Christian shrouded in darkness sitting in a bubble of light, which I know is impossible according to the known laws of physics.

So _he's _the one tickling the ivories.

I bet I can sneak my way past him and get to the kitchen.

_Crap!_

He saw me.

My stomach _would _pick the wrong time to rumble. Traitorous digestive system. My subconscious twitters delightedly behind her hand like a Japanese geisha.

Caught, I have no choice but to join Christian. Malala Yousafzai has nothing on me, as I bravely sit on the piano stool next to Christian and make a musical contribution of my own.

_Whoopi cushion!_

Christian and his practical jokes.

"Sorry," Christian says, but I don't think he is. Not really, at least.

And then _another_ odd thing happens. Christian gets up from the piano, but the beautiful piano music continues to play. It's The Flower Duet from Leo Delibes' opera Lakme. With a press of a button, it stops.

"You mean, you weren't really playing the piano?" I ask him.

"Ana," Christian tells me, taking the soundtrack from _The Hunger_ out of his CD player, "to learn how to play the piano would take hours and hours of hard work and dedication. I've never had time for that. I've always been way too busy finding women to spank."

I sit there. Dumbfounded.

"I learned," Christian continues, "at a very young age, that it's easier to _pretend_ to do something, than to actually do it. When I was a student at Hogwarts, my parents insisted I play sports, but they never went to any of my quidditch games, so I eventually quit the team and just _told _them that I was playing. That way, everybody was happy."

"And all your trophies?"

"I bought them all."

Again, there's that vague feeling of _deja vu_. Still, I don't know whether to be disappointed by his deviousness or impressed with his cleverness.

"Stick with dumbfounded," my inner goodness recommends, so I do.

I shift positions, so I can get up and complete my trip to the kitchen, but Christian mistakes it for something else and scoops me into his lap.

"Do you know what I'd like" he asks, salaciously.

"Bacon?" I suggest.

"No, but it does include eating. Do you know what I'd like to eat?" he teases, lasciviously.

"Ham?"

"No, that's not on the menu, but a kind of fatty meat is close."

Menu? Hmm... that's my cue.

"Speaking of menus, Christian," I tell him, menu-speakingly, "I want to get something straight."

"You already have," he says, mischievously, gyrating his hips underneath my kind of fatty meat.

"I'm talking about the sexual menu you want me to agree to. There are a lot of things in it that I'm uncomfortable with."

Christian, surprisingly enough, has the menu in his hand. He offers it to me, and I notice a lot of the "items" have already been crossed out.

"As you see," Christian tells me, "I've even taken out the Pink Sock. That one disgusts even me, if you can imagine. There's just one thing I have to stand firm on, and that's the stipulation that you must fast before every sexual encounter."

"Fast?"

"Yes."

"FAST?"

"That's right."

"_FAST?_"

"I think I've already answered in the affirmative."

"_You expect me to fast?_"

Hey, them's fighting words, and my highly-caffeinated metabolism agrees with me. I stand up suddenly and slam my two fists on top of the piano. Wood splinters everywhere and the legs shatter from the force of the blow, causing the piano to crumple to the floor like an accordion. A _broken_ accordion.

"_FAST?_"

Christian jumps out of the way as I grab the piano stool he's sitting on and throw it against the wall. It smashes into a million little pieces, just like James Frey's writing career. The framed painting it hits falls to the floor, broken, torn, and unrecognizable, but that last one is mainly because it was a Picasso.

Picasso?

_Picasso?_

_ PICASSO?_

I HATE Picasso!

"You expect me to _fast?_" I scream at Christian. "To go without _food?_ That... Makes... Hulk... _MAD!_ And when Hulk gets mad, Hulk _SMASHES!_"

I pick the couch up over my head and hurl it through the wall. It crashes into the kitchen, where it crushes the refrigerator and destroys all that beautiful ham.

Christian raises his hands in front of his face in a protective gesture against the force of my wrath. When he sees me advance toward him, he tries to hide behind the drapes.

"Pay no attention to the man behind the curtains!" he squawks. "Pay no attention to the man behind the curtains!"

I stomp over to the drapery, grab two big fistfuls of cloth and tear them down from their rods. They fall on top of Christian like the trash they've become.

"Ana! Please!" he wails, trying to calm me down, to reason with me, but I'm beyond calming down and being reasoned with.

I angrily clomp over to the bookshelf and start firing off the books left and right like missiles. One goes crashing through a window. Another sticks in the wall like a literary work of modern art. Christian has to duck to keep from being clobbered by a third.

"A first edition Edgar Allen Poe?" I yell, glancing at the book in my hand. "I LOVE Edgar Allen Poe!" and immediately tear the book into confetti. "And THAT'S what I do to the things I LOVE!" I shout at Christian, who's cowering in the corner, waiting for the tempest to subside.

Oh, my goobers!

Have I gone too far?

I just tore apart a priceless literary artifact. It's irreplaceable, and now it's no more. I pick up some of the torn pages from the floor and try to stick them together using a little bit of spit.

They fall limply to the floor.

And so do I.

I sit there, crying.

"I'm _so _hungry," I wail. "Oh, Christian, don't you understand? I'd _never _be able to fast."

"There, there," Christian says, joining me on the floor. He takes me in his arms, trying to comfort me. "Well work something out. We'll find a compromise."

"No," I say wiping away some snot with the sleeve of my robe. "Can't you see, we'll _never_ be able to work things out. We're too different. I'm coffee, you're tea. I'm beer, and you're a fine wine. I'm rubber and you're glue, everything you say bounces off me and sticks to _you_."

I look at Christian. He looks so lost, so heartbroken. Fifty shades of sadness. The J. Geils Band was right, love stinks. Yeah, yeah.

"I'll return everything you've given me," I tell him. "Everything, that is, except for that car you gave me, the Adobe SNL. It rained and now it's just a puddle of mud.

"Surely, you're joking," he says, pleadingly.

I shake my head.

"No," I say, "and my name's not Shirley." I stand, straightening up, and prepare to leave. "If I don't leave now, we'll regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of our lives. I'm no good at being noble, but it doesn't take much to see that the sexual problems of two little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you'll understand that."

Christian stands up and holds me close.

"Here's looking at _you_, kid," Christian tells me, and with that he gives me a hard slap on the ass.


	71. 26b: Happy New Year! & The End

"Here's looking at _you_, kid," Christian tells me, and with that he gives me a hard slap on the ass.

_Ouch!_

I bet _that_ will leave a mark.

"You know you don't have to act with me, Christian," I tell him. "If you want me, just whistle. You know how to whistle, don't you? You just put your lips together and blow."

"I'm not into that," Christian says.

I hug him.

Hard.

Reluctantly, I let him go, and walk over to the line of people who have suddenly appeared out of nowhere to wish me well. Crockett, Doobie, Mr. and Mrs. Grey. I walk down the line of well-wishers, and say goodbye to each.

"Now I know I've got a heart," Crockett tells me, "because it's breaking."

Little Doobie looks up at me with his big sad eyes.

"Wanna get high?" he squeaks, offering me a wet, limp joint.

"No, thank you," I say, quickly bypassing him and moving on to Christian's father.

"I'm glad you found your freedom, Mr. Grey," referring to the murder he could have been arrested for.

"Well, I would never've found it if it hadn't been for you," he tells me, giving me an enthusiastic hug.

I re-hook my bra as I walk up to Mrs. Grey, Christian's mother.

"I wish you weren't leaving, Ana," she tells me.

"Do you really mean that, Grace?" I ask her.

"No," she says.

There's only one person left to say goodbye to, and then I'll have to leave.

"I'll miss you most of all," I tell the Scarecrow, and reach down to pick up Toto.

I turn to Kate, who's dressed in a beautifully fancy pink dress.

"I just want to go home," I say.

"You had the power all along," she tells me. "Just click your heels three times and say, 'There's no place like home. There's no place...'"

"...like home. There's no place like home."

The world begins to spin, and, when it stops, I'm laying in my own bed. Kate's applying a cool, wet cloth to my forehead. She's wearing her cute little baby-doll nightie with fur along the bottom to keep her neck warm. There's an old Humphrey Bogart movie playing on the television set.

"She's awake!" says one voice.

"Ana's awake!" says another.

I look around. Not only is Kate there, but so is Jose and his cousin.

"Oh, Ana, we were so worried," Jose tells me. "Weren't we, Sy?"

"_Si_."

"You were?"

"Of course we were," Kate interjects, then adds, "You were delirious the whole time you were unconscious."

"I was?"

"You were."

"Did you call a doctor?"

"For what?"

But before I could answer...

"I thought I'd drop by and see how she's doing..." a familiar voice from behind me says.

_It's Christian!_

"...her head had a rather nasty bump against that lamp post in chapter 3."

It's true. I feel my head and there's a rather large lump on it, much larger than the other ones.

He's standing just outside of the window in my room, which is odd since my apartment is on the fourteenth floor.

"Gravity boots," he says, but I think he means _anti_-gravity boots.

"I was in a magical land, and you were there, and you and you and _you_," I say, pointing to Christian.

They laugh politely. That's okay, I'm used to people laughing at me.

"We're not laughing at you, Ana," Christian says, gently. "We're laughing _with _you."

I don't know, it sure feels like they're laughing _at_ me.

"I'm okay," I tell them. "Can I have some privacy? I'd like to take a bath."

They look at each other, concerned.

"Well, at least we know her nose works," Kate says, and they all file out.

I get up, start to undress, when...

"I can still see you," I tell the eyeball peeking at me from the bottom corner of the window.

"I was just leaving," Christian says, and does just that.

I walk into the bathroom and look at myself. I'm naked in the mirror like Reese Witherspoon in the movie _Wild_, only without her paycheck.

Could it all have just been a dream?

I turn away from my reflected image and bend over to turn the hot water knob in the bathtub so I can have a nice long soak, when...

Glimpsing back, something catches my eye. A red mark. On my butt. And it's in the shape of a hand.

_Christian's _hand.

-_fin_-


End file.
